Savage
by Orpah
Summary: A young Australia is brought to live with England for the first time. Will England's biased and harsh treatment of him be too much? And what of Canada?
1. Chapter 1

Ok, slightly AU type story, but I got the inspiration and I had to write it. It has some basis in history. Plus, there are not enough stories with Australia in them. Enjoy, my darlings! *blows kisses*

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

The air was crisp and cold, filling Australia's nostrils and making him wish he didn't have to breathe at all. His rump was quite sore as well, as though he had been repeatedly sitting down violently on rocks. As it was, he had been riding in the strange English invention: a carriage, a wheeled box with animals called horses, whose faces were long and unhappy looking, pulling it around.

"Now, you'll understand, the only reason I've brought you here is that you've shown you are civilised; you have proven to me that I can trust you to behave." The green eyes of England were sharp, clearly communicating that if he messed this up, there would be Hell to pay. And Australia knew what that meant, from his months of English discipline.

England gave a nod, and finally knocked on the old, wooden door of his house, which was the complete opposite of their former abode. The walls were a dark green, though not a healthy, vibrant green of plants, but rather that of England's occasionally worn stiff coat. The door was just as uninviting, a great metal beast's face on it, which may have been a lion. It suited England's personality, Australia decided, as he was just as liable to snarl and strike without warning.

It was only a short time until the door opened, and a pale face, framed by silky-looking locks, stuck out. Purple eyes widened as they took in England, and the door opened wide. "Sir, I am glad to see you home. Please come in." The voice of this person sounded grateful, in some way, but strangely held back at the same time. It made Australia think of soldiers, but with a heart.

"Good to see you, Canada," England greeted, handing him his hat and beginning to take off his coat as well as he strode in. Australia followed instinctively, and the boy called Canada fixed his eyes upon him, almost questioningly. "Is this... Australia?"

England nodded at Australia, clearly a prompt, and Australia's mind raced. What was he supposed to say in this situation? Did he ask after Canada's health, confirm his question, kiss his hand? He could not remember. So, naturally, he went for a mix.

"Yes, and how healthy are you?" His smaller hand yanked Canada's forward, and placed a tiny kiss on it. The hand was swiftly retracted, as Canada went pink, though whether with embarassment or amusement, Australia could not tell. England's face was drawn into an irritated scowl, as though he thought he had just seen his supposed success turn to ashes before him. But he collected himself, coughing into his hand.

"Australia, that is not how you greet someone. Try again." Australia tried to think. He had gone over many ways to greet people when he began staying with England, but he could not recall which one applied to this situation. He tried again, this time rather meekly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Canada." It was as though he didn't know what to do with his fingers, they awkardly interlocked and twisted. Canada, however, tried to rescue him from his embarassment. "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Australia. Do you want me to show you your room?" The blonde glanced over at England to make sure what he had said was okay, and he got a nod.

Australia grinned, following Canada as the other hefted his bag from beside the doorway (when had that gotten there anyway?) and headed up the stairs. These stairs were wooden, and they were quite narrow and steep. Australia felt as though, if he missed a step, he'd surely clip his knee very painfully.

There were several doorways in the hallway, but not nearly so many as at a jail. And of course, they were nicely decorated, with carved frames against the rich brown wall. Canada continued to the end of the hallway, glancing back only once to make sure Australia was following.

The door gave a slight creak as it opened, and Australia leaned in excitedly to see what the room held.

There was a bed, with a wooden frame, and a large mattress, which looked rather different from the thin pallet he'd been sleeping on. A wooden structure stood next to his bed, holding a bowl with a pitcher in it, and a wardrobe stood on the opposite wall to the bed, very imposing in its great height.

Australia threw himself onto the bed with an excited squeal, delighted when he found that the blankets covering it were very soft. "Do I really get to sleep here?"

Canada was smiling softly, and he nodded. "So, you come from pretty far away, right?"

"Yes. So far away from here I couldn't even tell you how to get back."

That produced a chuckle from Canada. "I come from a little far away too. Not as far as you, though. I might get to go back, once England calms down though."

Australia's head lifted up from the blankets, interest piqued. "You mean he's not always so grumpy?"

A sigh from Canada, as he turned to look out the window. "No... He's upset, because, you see, my big brother America, he decided he didn't want to be with him anymore. We should have seen it coming. Nothing's ever good enough for Al..." A frown had appeared on Canada's face, as he appeared to be remembering something or other. "I was fine with the taxes. Why couldn't he be? I just... I don't understand why he had to be so rebellious. England's not been the same, not since 1783."

Australia just watched Canada, face a little blank. So... England was mad because this America had left him? And it seemed like Canada was upset too.

So naturally, he reached out and grabbed Canada's hands. "It'll be good! You don't need somebody who doesn't want you! So don't be sad, okay?"

Canada smiled, angry creases disappearing from his face like a shirt being ironed. "Okay. Let's not talk about sad things." He swiftly got his hands free of Australia's smaller ones, and began unpacking his bag, hanging up clothes in the wardrobe. "This is where all your clothes go, understand?"

Australia understood, and communicated it through a nod. Maybe this new home would be a good place to be after all.

* * *

Dinner was a silent affair, almost as much as when England wasn't home. Although, at least then Canada could make small conversation with the staff, of whom there were only two, Betty and Eduarda. Eduarda was a large woman, silent as the grave but the best cook Canada had ever met. Betty was light and spritely, but that was muted during dinner, when she made sure they each had enough to drink and removed dishes.

Canada could see that Australia was already getting itchy under his collar, squirming uselessly in his chair. England did not take notice, until the little boy began picking at his nails with his salad fork. "Australia. You do not use your fork like that. Do not cause me to remind you of proper etiquette again."

The fork was placed among its brothers, and the achey silence continued. Canada was fearing where this could be going, what England could have to say that he was keeping them there so long. Of course, they couldn't be waiting for dessert. He knew they had no such luck. England had decided that he had been too soft on his colonies, and so dessert was the first thing to go, except on special occasions.

What was really concerning Canada, though, was the pondering frown on England's face, as though he weren't here, but instead was thinking about something else- or someone. Canada felt the anger in him rise, just a little bit, at the thought of the traitor. What had he been thinking, doing this to them? But then he glanced over at Australia, who was eyeing the fork as though it were the most interesting thing in the room. And it probably was, to the lad, Canada realised. He should probably do something to wake England from his memories and get them dismissed.

"Sir," and he shattered the silence, causing England to look over at him sharply. His head ducked down, but he continued speaking. "Might we leave the table now? Australia is a little boy, and he can't be expected to-"

"He will sit there and behave as long as I desire him to." Came the stern response, as though he were just daring Canada to say otherwise. Australia looked up, murmuring, "I'm not a little boy."

"Sit up straight and speak clearly." England admonished, and so Australia did, and quiet reigned for the next few seconds. Until Australia let out a small whine. "Mister England, I am so tired from the trip. Can I _please_ go to my room?" The plea was accompanied with a pitiful sagging of Australia's body, so that he nearly fell off of the chair.

"_Manners_, Australia!" England barked, fire coming into those green orbs of his, "What are we without manners? Savages, ungrateful savages, who turn away from civilisation's guiding light! I can guarantee you, if I cannot impress upon you the importance of civility, then it is only because you are too dull-minded, not because of a failure on my part! Are you an unwitting savage, only too keen to give in to your base desires, or will you be a man, Australia?"

Australia appeared to be confused, but he straightened up unhappily. "I'm not a savage." Canada shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Since when had England been so... well, harsh? He would have never given a short rant on savagery to him or America when they were little... Canada supposed it was a sign things had changed.

"Good." England kept his gaze firmly on Australia, as if watching for any signs of savagery. "Canada, you may go. Tell Eduarda the food was excellent."

"Yessir." Canada did not want to stick around to hear more of England's moodiness, even if it was not directed at him. He silently slid out of his seat, making sure to push it in before turning to leave, with one last glance at poor Australia. The boy was sitting up as straight as he could, but there was a droop in his face, as he sullenly watched Canada escape.

Canada did not feel guilty, because it was not his fault this had happened. It was all America's.

/AN/ My sister is making croaking noises instead of talking because she likes to pretend she's sicker than she is. She is so annoying. *rolls eyes* But anywho, this is all rather vaguely based on history, and yes, the povs will change a bunch. That's half the fun of a story, da? And I don't know who invented the carriage, but Australia thinks England did, because he may or may not have implied it. Also, I don't think soldiers are heartless.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry, this took longer than I expected; I have lots of real life to contend with. I'm still excited about this story though, cause I love history-based stories and I'm finally writing one decently! Believe me, my first ones were rather painful. Also, I'm enjoying looking at Australia and Canada's childhoods more darkly, cause, as you may or may not know, the majority of my stories are tooth-rottingly sweet.

So, anyway, enjoy!

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

England was not a doting parent- no, scratch that, _caregiver_- and that was something Australia had been fully aware of. However, there had been an abstract belief, floating around in his mind, that when they finally got back to the place England called home, maybe, just maybe, there would be a softening in his demeanor, the snow and ice turning to slush. Still cold, but at least showing some affection, when it was deserved.

He had been wrong, of course.

"You'll sit there until you learn to behave yourself!" England was in a right foul mood, and Australia could only vaguely blame himself. "I was only trying to-"

"No excuses! Only weak-minded fools make excuses!" Australia vainly tried to peel England's much too tight fingers off of his arm as he was dragged along, but it was no use. "But I didn't mean to-!"

"Results show intentions, Australia! Don't give me that bullshit!" Ah, now they were approaching the chair. It was familiar to Australia by now, as one of the least decorous items in England's home. It was simple, wooden, very hard, and very splintery. In essence, it could only be made worse by having great spikes attached to the seat. It was this seat England pointed to now, releasing Australia.

"Now, sit on the edge." England's eyes were colder than diamonds, and though Australia was not big on protesting England, he just felt it wasn't fair this time. "But I'm sorry! They're just mice, I don't know why you're so upset!"

England's lips scrunched together tightly, before he bellowed, "Civilised people do not feed mice on purpose! They do not keep them as pets, hidden in their armoire! Do you even understand the damage you've done to that priceless piece of furniture? And now, I have to kill them all! You are shaping up to be the worst-behaved colony I have ever had!"

Australia's eyes widened in horror. "You can't kill them, they're a family! Please, I'm sorry, I'll do anything, just don't hurt them!"

The large hand of England seized his head, forcing him to sit on the seat. "All mice are a pestilence on the earth, nothing more. It will do you good if you learn to understand that. Man is always greater than dumb animals. We were given dominion over the earth, not them. Now hold still."

Australia's eyes began to become blurry, and he could already feel his nose begin to run. However, if England saw him crying, he would call him a girl, and that was the last thing Australia wanted to happen. But his mice, his loving, trusting mice! He hadn't known England was so cruel! If he'd known, he might have fought back, he might have resisted becoming his colony- but England was too strict, his leash far too tight and short for Australia to have had a chance.

His lip trembled violently as England placed a stack of books on top of his head. "Now then, sit up straight, instead of slouching like a heathen, and as soon as I deal with these horrid creatures you've decided are worthy of your savage company, and I will be back. Don't you dare try moving, because it won't take long."

And England walked out of his office, leaving Australia sniffling and desperately trying not to let one tear escape, back rigid as the heavy books pressed on his head.

* * *

Canada stared out of his window, in the direction of France. It had actually taken some time to figure out which direction that was, some days ago when he had been feeling especially homesick. But with a map and a compass, it had been fairly simple.

It had only been since 1763 that he had been handed over, and 1783 that England had forced him to move from his comfy cabin in Quebec to this horrid house in London. As a result, he thought a lot of France, his papa, the one who may not have been the first nation he met (he did blurrily recall a white-haired fellow), but was certainly the first one to leave an impression.

It was France from whom he got his silky hair. It was France from whom he got his good taste in food. And it was France from whom he got his first, and last, sense of being loved.

America had never loved him. They had never been close brothers, avoiding contact when under different powers, and when both under the British empire, squabbling over borders. He was sure, to this day, that America hated him because he wouldn't join him.

And who would have? It was an insane cause, and Canada could deal with raised taxes, since he relied so heavily on England anyway. It was just one more sacrifice they had to make, because they were part of an empire, an empire that was having some money problems. But no, America could never take anything quietly. He'd gone and caused problems, and then got even more upset when England favored Canada over him.

It was as though he couldn't stand not being the absolute most important person in England's life.

Canada breathed on the window, watching it frost up. America was selfish, and back-stabbing, and he was glad they weren't in the same empire anymore anyway.

Except...

Except, maybe if he were, then England could show the slightest bit of affection towards someone else. He wouldn't feel as though his heart were dead, unable to hear the silent pleas for attention and love from Canada. No one seemed to matter to him, unless they represented some sort of gain for the empire.

Nothing mattered beyond that. Not anymore.

And now, now...

Now, France was being tested by fire, the rage of a revolution still sweeping through his country. Canada had only heard so much, but England had seemed to want to torture him the other day, when he asked about how France was doing.

'He's cutting off people's bloody heads, and if he doesn't watch it, he may bloody well lose his own. Serves him right.'

Canada had never been through a revolution, but it sounded horrifying. England had described the guillotine, and its function, in detail, as though he didn't even notice how much it sickened him. He'd nearly retched. England had also murmured that the revolution had better not be contagious, or he'd kill the bloody frog.

His heart aching for his papa, Canada put his forehead against the glass. He felt so helpless, and weak, over here, stuck in this damn house. There was no way he could even get to France, much less help him. Canada fretted. He could already be dead, a new personification emerging to be the new France. But no! That couldn't happen to France, France was all smiles and pretty clothes and warm hugs, he did not deserve to die!

Canada could feel a sob threatening to escape from him, but he pushed it down. Crying would do no good... But what did do good, stuck here, cut off from everyone he cared about?

It was a question to which he had no answer.

/AN/ I know, it wasn't as long as my first chapter, but more should happen in the next chapter. This is more of an in-between. Anywho, so, the revolution is winding down in France, and not much else is going on, other than more penal colonies being established in Australia.


	3. Chapter 3

Yeah, I'm slow at this... But hey, at least I take my time to make sure it's good! You wouldn't like it if it were just all blah... And, since I can't remember if I ever explained this, Canada is around 12-13 type age, whereas Australia is 8 or so.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Dinner was silent, as always, but there was a charge in the air. Canada kept looking to England nervously, almost hungrily, as though he were desperate to hear what news had darkened England's mood so much. Australia,naturally, did not really understand why. It was not as though England ever had particularly good news for them.

"Did anything happen in the world today?" Canada's voice was very quiet, but urgent. Australia shoved some more indistinct food in his mouth, trying to savor whatever flavor it may have retained. England's great eyebrows sank lower, the ends coming to meet each other, as his head turned towards Canada. "What a stupid question, of course things happened in the world today, everything keeps happening in the bloody damn world!"

Oh, wonderful. Canada had got him cursing. England tried not to curse, because he believed himself quite the gentleman, and gentlemen didn't curse, as he repeatedly told Australia. Not that Australia had ever tried cursing more than once, oh no. He learned that lesson very quickly.

Canada appeared to be turning more timid by the moment, but he kept his resolve to get information out of England. "Did... Did anything happen... In France?" Uh oh. Australia couldn't help but smirk a little. It looked like someone besides him was going to get it! Canada really should know better than to mention the names of those England hated.

"France? France? Why, that bloody fool has gone and started a war on the continent! He's invaded Belgium, because he wanted to get in a fight with Austria. Well, now he's got exactly what he wanted, the damn frog, he's got Prussia and Austria trying to drive him out! I hope they flay his worthless bloody hide!" England raged, taking a furious drink of water and turning his angriest glare on Canada, as though it were his fault. Australia shrunk in his seat, no longer feeling like celebrating that someone else was in trouble.

Why was England so mad if he wanted France gone anyway? Wouldn't getting in a fight with two other nations get rid of him pretty quick? Of course, who was Australia to understand these things? It was not as though he had contact with any other nation-type beings besides Canada and England.

He was not surprised to see Canada had paled, though whether it was because he was afraid of England or because he didn't want France gone, Australia didn't know. Canada's lips opened and closed for a second, silently, before sound finally came out. "I-I was just... Is he going to...?"

"Kick the bloody bucket? I hope he does, it would serve the bastard right! I shouldn't be surprised if he was no longer tainting the rest of the world by this time next year!" England was still angry, but not quite so vehement as before. He stabbed into the very thoroughly cooked meat viciously, slicing it as though it were greatly offensive to him. Which was rather strange, considering it was cooked exactly the way he'd instructed Eduarda to cook it. Australia could only marvel at the fact Canada could say stupid things and he couldn't.

But Canada did not seem to be thinking about the same thing, instead staring off into space with a thoroughly horrified expression on his face, fork clenched in a fist. Australia could feel the tension in the air, and it made as restless as ever. Though, anything seemed to make him restless, from itchy, 'proper' clothes to being made to sit on the Chair. He thought, that maybe, deep down, he would never reach the civilised point England was aiming for, and he'd have to be locked up in the basement where he wouldn't embarass him.

"Excuse me." Canada's chair scraped against the floor as he abruptly stood up, looking away from both of them. He would have left, just like that, if England hadn't barked at him, "Just where do you think you're going? Sit your arse down!"

Fists clenched, Canada froze, still keeping his face pointed downwards. Australia watched, in almost morbid fascination, as tremors went up and down his fellow colony's arms, before finally the silence was broken by the soft noise of Canada's rear meeting the wooden seat of the chair. His elbows immediately went up on the table, hands grasping his face, and there was a barely perceptible shake to his whole person.

"Get your elbows off the table, didn't I teach you better?" It seemed England was perfectly calm, almost eerily uninvolved in what he was doing, as he casually drank his ale. Australia could only watch breathlessly, to see if Canada would defy England. He did not, though it was obvious he didn't obey willingly, as he seemed to have to force his arms down. However, his back still curved and his head ducked down, as though to protect whatever emotion was helplessly displayed on his features.

Canada so rarely got into trouble, at least not that Australia saw, so he was mesmerized, wondering what England would do about the improper posture. He would have tied a pole to Australia's back by now, had he been Canada, so Australia couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. What made Canada so much better than him anyway?

"Sit up straight, like a gentleman." England seemed almost careless, as though he really couldn't see that Canada was probably very upset. Australia couldn't help but think he was a stellar example at this point, the one Canada should be following. Why was Canada acting this way anyhow? Was this France, who England described as a 'damn frog' and a 'bloody bastard', important to him?

Canada straightened, and finally Australia could see why he was hiding his face. His lower lip trembled violently, pressed against his upper lip in a desperate attempt to keep in any noises. His face was already blotchy, and tears barely managed to make it out of his eyes. His breathing was stuffy, always intake and rarely the sound of an exhale, as though he were trying to keep as much air inside himself as possible.

England looked over, and if Australia didn't know better, he might've thought he was _amused_ by this little display. "Please do try and stop that, it isn't civilised." Such carelessness! If only England would treat his tears and bitter upsets this way; Australia could do almost anything with such small consequences.

If Australia had been in a more empathetic mood, he might've realised Canada was really suffering, as he tried to keep his anguish at France's state inside himself. But as it was, he was just a boy, and he took the fact that Canada had not been sentenced to the chair or a paddling as a sign he was not really being punished.

Dinner continued quietly, and progressively Canada tried less and less to keep it inside, until his head dropped and almost silent tears fell from his eyes. England took no further notice of him, not even when Australia harrumphed suggestively. It was as though the golden boy could not get in trouble, Australia concluded bitterly.

* * *

Canada's hand was still, though poised as if ready to lift the pen out of the inkwell any time now. Paper, nice, almost new paper, which England seemed intent on supplying himself with, was laid out in front of him. It was as though, however, he could not move his arm to supply the paper with inky meaning, just staring dully at it in thought.

The problem, of course, was not with his arm, but with his mind. Thoughts darted about, such as the most recent, most disturbing one yet: was there even a way a letter could get to France? Especially from England. Only a channel may separate them physically, but years of hatred and rivalry, and now war and revolutionary forces, separated them emotionally. How would he find someone to carry the letter for him? Was there a single Frenchman or sympathetic Englishman in England who would hearken to his cause?

But what if there was a way, and he didn't let France know he still cared about him, that England hadn't influenced his thinking so much that he'd forgotten about his Papa? Then that would be even worse than writing the letter and not being able to send it.

The pen was lifted out of the inkwell, making its first mark on the blank paper. It read, in rather loopy letters, _Dear France,_ and continued on with carefully chosen words of encouragement, and affection, the kind Canada did not share with many people. His heart was racing as he wrote, knowing he had not seen France in many years. How was he to know if France still felt the same paternal feelings for him? How was he to know if he'd resigned all hope for Canada retaining love for him?

But he forged on anyhow, making sure not to include descriptions of his own circumstances, except that he hated living with the English bastard, though he allowed him to speak French and gave him a nice room. There just was no comparison between France and England, was all.

More questions, however, plagued the back of Canada's mind. What if France did not even survive long enough to recieve the letter? And what if, worse still, he did recieve it, but died shortly after due to his wars? Canada had to convince him to take a different course of action. He pleaded with him, to stop fighting people, to retreat, and live to see him once again. Because England could not keep them apart forever, it was simply impossible. The day would come when Canada had power too, and he could see whomever he wanted to see.

He ended his letter with a simple, _sincerely, Canada._ He folded it, sealed it with wax, and tucked it into his houserobe. He would get this letter out to France, no matter what it took. He would go out with Betty when she went to get food from the market, and he would slip away and find someone on the docks who was going to France.

His Papa would not suffer alone and friendless if he could help it.

* * *

Sitting still. Was it all Australia did anymore? And he wasn't even being punished, at least it hadn't been said that he was. He was doing the dreaded schoolwork England had told him he would have to accomplish if he ever wanted to be considered civilised. Which was seeming to be a more and more impossible goal as time went on.

Was something wrong with him, that he couldn't be considered as civilised as Canada? That he needed to be punished more than Canada, even though he had never burst into tears at dinner? He refused to admit that Canada had never been known, during his stay, to do things like keep animals of any kind, climb on furniture, destroy property or hide from England when called. None of that really matter; he was trying, he really was, to conform to England's expectations. Why did it have to be so hard?

But now was not the time to think on it. Now was the time to learn about the Stuart kings... who were immensely boring, at least to Australia. He would rather be anywhere but this stuffy house, and he settled his book on its spine, leaving it lying open as he leaned back. Closing his eyes, he began to remember that which he missed.

The sun, he could feel it on his face, bright and heating his skin. There never seemed to be enough sun in England, as though the clouds had decided to restrict England's good weather in revenge for taking away the child who was so in tune with their constant moving. Australia loved clouds, he loved the sky, even when it was dark. That was when the pinpoints of light showed there, and he loved to try and count them. Here, the stars seemed to be different somehow. He didn't want to ask why, for fear of being told it was an uncivilised question and that his stars were savage stars he needn't concern himself with.

One more thing he wished he could be right now: stark naked. Canada, with his distant eyes, would have been so furiously embarassed, that it made Australia chuckle. Yes, there was nothing better than having the air have direct contact with one's skin. The very uncivilised thought made him open one eye to look around and make sure no one was around to hear him think it. Then he snorted in a rather boyish giggle. What England would do if he went around naked...

Though, now that he thought about it, England was up in his special room for paperwork, and Canada was off doing whatever it was he did. Neither of them would ever know if he just did it for a short while...

It is always amazing how quickly a young child can get undressed when they have a mind to, and Australia was no different. He shed his clothes like corn gets shucked, and was presently very naked in the middle of England's sitting room. A delighted chuckle broke forth, and was quickly followed by louder siblings.

How glorious! He had never known how that word could be applied til now. He stretched, enjoying the lack of confining clothes. Then he began to climb on the furniture, sitting first here, on the arm of the chair, and then there, on the table. Before he knew it, he was climbing the bookcase, yet another thing forbidden him. But England wasn't here, so what did it matter?

He began to frolick, jumping around like a madman, beginning to sing in his own peculiar way, which seemed to be formed from no existing culture. It was a rather shaky warble, though almost like howling, that made its way out of his throat, though never too loudly. It was purely a delighted sound, not meant to entertain in any way, shape, or form.

A particularly loud burble from the song, and Australia heard the floor creak above him. Panic immediately set in, as the creaking seemed to move in the direction of the stairs. Was it Canada, or was it England? It was a question Australia really had no time to consider, as franticly tried to pull on all his clothes at once. Why, oh why, weren't English clothes easy to put on?

The top stair creaked. Australia's pants were on, his shirt was on- but his stockings, he'd thrown them across the room! He had to get them on, and now! Australia tore across the room, snatching up his stockings and forcing his feet into them, and if he had been any more forceful about it, he was sure he would have torn right through them! But here came the one, oh, don't let it be England, oh please, he begged-

Confused purple eyes met his, and the tension seemed to leave his body almost instantly. He fell against the floor, starting to laugh a little bit. Canada just looked down on him, as puzzled as ever. "What was all that noise? And why is your shirt on backwards?"

Why indeed.

/AN/ Well, I did decide as I was writing the ending piece, that there should be some happiness in here, you know? So that's what that's about; Australia doesn't always get caught being 'savage', you know. ;) I also have realised I should make Canada the other character of the story, if I haven't already. And probably change summary a little bit.

But the history in this chapter is as follows: the French begin the French Revolutionary Wars by invading Austrian Netherlands (Belgium). The Prussians and the Austrians fight them. And, of course, England's prediction is soooo off, btw... XD


	4. Chapter 4

I feel so guilty about neglecting Secrets in the Basement... but the right words just won't come. It's like I'm at a major standstill, you know? It's like writing block only on that story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and don't mind the OCs. ^^

Okay, so, I hit a snag with this story. I feel so stupid about it, but I finally figured out the only way to continue the story as I have. Eduarda and Betty no longer exist, cause otherwise we'd be zipping through the years too fast for their mortality. Sorry about that; I hate it when I don't plan it through quite right. But this is really a more 'nations only' type of story, y'know?

Also, is it just me, or are all the stories listed with the main character Parallel France 23 not about Parallel France 23? I'm just sayin'...

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Australia wasn't a good boy.

He knew this, not because he'd been told, no, England had never outright said _that_, but he himself had proven it today. On his cheeks rested crumbs, crumbs which bore the heavy shame of having been from stolen fare. He had known perfectly well the scones were not for him, but rather for teatime. England had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to eat them, or even look at them with covetousness.

But his heart had felt sneaky, and told him since he was going to eat some for teatime anyway (only one or two, that was all England ever allowed), it was okay to eat one now. So of course, here he sat now, miserably, stomach roiling with guilt. It was no wonder England didn't love him; he was a rotten thief.

Any minute now, he knew England would find him, and he would be in such a mess. But he couldn't get himself to truly care; he probably deserved it, after all. His nose began to itch, a sure sign liquid was going to escape from his eyes, and he shut his eyes tightly. Why, oh why, did he have to have such a wicked heart? He was always doing things he shouldn't, things England told him weren't civilized!

He hunched over his knees, as though he could make himself smaller and hide from his problems. But no, the problems weren't outside of him; they were all inside. A short, broken off sob that could have passed for a cough broke free from him. Then it was followed by a second, and a third, before they were coming out in succession like badly dressed soldiers on parade.

"Hey, little fellow, are you alright?" The voice, unfamiliar yet somehow exactly alike the strident voice he'd gotten used to over all this time, caught him off guard. His head snapped up, and his heart jumped at the great eyebrows he was met with. But then, he took in the whole face, or rather, the whole head, and was surprised by the differences.

This person had massive eyebrows, but his hair was darker than England's, and was mildly wavy. His eyes were a soft hazel, which were filled with concern at this particular moment. Australia's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "W-who are you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry; I just saw you crying and wanted to do something about it. I'm Wales, England's older brother. Are you okay?" Australia bristled a little. "I-I wasn't _crying_! I just had something stuck in my throat! I'm... I'm fine!" In the back of his mind, he was recalling that name very vaguely; weren't a bunch of England's royals Prince of Wales or something like that?

Wales just smiled, though why was beyond Australia. Maybe he was happy that Australia seemed okay. "If you say so. What's your name?" Australia was never one to be shy, even if Wales had seen him crying. "I'm Australia! I'm from very far away from here, farther than you've probably ever been!" He spread his hands wide, to demonstrate that it was very far indeed.

"Is that so? Well, I haven't really been almost anywhere, to be honest, so anywhere off the island would be far away for me." He seemed very delighted with Australia, squatting down at his level. And Australia couldn't deny that he was delighted with this new, friendly person. He puffed out his chest importantly. "I went on a boat halfway across the world! You know what? There's a lot of water in the ocean!"

Wales grinned at that, sitting down on the floor. "You don't say? Did you see any other countries while you were on this voyage of yours?" At that, Australia's shoulders sunk a little. Here he had to disappoint this man who seemed to like him so much, with no tales of other shores. "Well... No, I had to stay on the boat the whole time. England locked me into my room. But I saw some really cool fish!"

A shadow seemed to fall over Wales' face, as his expression became decidedly less cheery. "And how's England been treating you?" Australia was a little confused that he didn't want to know more about the fish, but he accepted the change of topic. "Well..." and he paused, looking around to make sure no one else could hear, "He punishes me a lot, cause sometimes I do things I'm not supposed to, but sometimes I didn't do anything wrong and he just thinks Canada's better than me cause I don't have blonde hair!" For that was the conclusion Australia had reached; Canada was the favorite because he had blonde hair, just like their guardian.

"How does he punish you?" Wales' eyes searched Australia's face, as if he were looking for something. It was a little unnerving to Australia, because, to be frank, he was not looked at full in the face for any length of time longer than a few seconds unless he was in trouble. Canada didn't look at him, and England... England wouldn't look at his face if he had no reason to, though of course, he got plenty of eye contact from the times when he was met with those smoldering orbs...

"He makes me sit still on the chair, most of the time. It's in his office, and he makes me balance books on my head while I sit! I hate that chair!" Australia realized that it felt so good to complain to someone who probably wasn't going to punish him. It was as though he were airing out his mind. Wales sighed, patting him on the head. "It's not the chair's fault, you know." He seemed, strangely, a little relieved, as though he had expected something worse.

The point of view, however, had never occurred to Australia. "But... if it weren't there, I wouldn't have to sit on it." That earned a chuckle from Wales. "Don't you think he'd just get a different chair?"

Australia's eyes narrowed in thought, then widened at the realization: it was true. He looked upon Wales with a newfound respect; the man was clearly very wise. Australia shifted on his seat on the ground, letting his legs splay out in front of himself. Another thought occurred to him. "If you're England's brother, why don't you live with him?" Because things would be so much better if there were this friendly person in the house, Australia was sure of it.

Wales gave a bitter laugh. "I would never live with him, not if I could help it. Iggy may be my brother, but there is no love between us. He's a controlling, sour old man, as far as I'm concerned." Australia's eyebrows had lifted rather comically at the explanation. He quickly looked around; if England heard Wales, he would get angry, and that could only mean bad things for Australia.

No sight of the big-browed bully. Australia thank his lucky stars. "England would be so mad if he heard you." Wales pressed his lips together, and gave a great outtake of air that was not quite a sigh. Then he spoke. "I don't really care. He knows how I feel about him, and vice versa. It's not as though we even pretend." His eyes took on a serious light, meeting Australia's and holding them. "Don't ever let him take your culture, or your original language. You hold onto them tighter than you'd hold onto gold, understand?"

Australia nodded vigorously, not really wanting to argue with Wales. He wondered why the country would give him such advice; what exactly was England and Wales' relationship like? But then Wales smiled, ruffling his hair. "Well then, go along, get to whatever it is you do with your time. I've got business, unfortunately." He got onto his knees and lifted up to a standing position. Australia was quick to follow suit. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Wales!"

A chuckle, and another ruffle of his hair. "We're practically brothers; call me Wales." And with that, he turned to leave. Australia watched him go, feeling rather nice inside. England had mentioned having brothers before; Australia wondered if his other brothers were just as nice, and if so, where did England get his personality from?

He wiped the crumbs from his face, and sighed, eyeing the scones. If he was going to get into trouble for eating one, why not eat some more?

* * *

Finally, _finally_ England was so busy, making sure everything was in place and trying to make it look like he was so rich and content he didn't even care about it. Apparently, the _gentleman_ had a visit with his 'less civilised' brother. It was something or other about slate mining, Canada wasn't really sure.

Shoes off, Canada crept along in his stocking feet, trying to make the stairs creak as little as possible. His letter was clutched to his chest, but he was minutely aware of every crease, every wrinkle in the paper, trying to make sure it would still be perfectly legible by the time he got it out to France. In his other hand, he held his shoes.

Down, down, down the steps he went, easing from one foot to the next silently. It would normally be a miracle to make it out of England's house, but in the circumstances, he was sure it would be fairly simple. Voices were coming out of the parlor, which was where England tended to meet with people, and they weren't all that friendly. Wales was probably complaining about the circumstances he was living in, and England was probably scoffing at him. Canada didn't really concentrate on the actual words of the conversation.

Shuffling gently across the floor, Canada knew he would have to pass the open doorway of the parlor to get to a door, either the back or the front. He could see fully into the room now, and, he breathed a noiseless sigh of relief, England's back was turned. He was facing Wales, whose hazel eyes were filled with frustration as his fist clenched and his voice went a couple octaves higher.

"I'm not _trying_ to complain, but maybe you should hear me out _for_ _once_!" England's arms were crossed; Canada could see it from where he was. And then, oh, that tone Canada hated so much, the one reserved for idiots or those who were 'beneath' the cultured nation; it made Canada feel a twinge of sympathy for Wales. "Don't you think I do what's best for _my_ empire? Or do you really suppose I look at each country or colony I manage and think, How can I possibly run this one into the ground?"

Wales was better at keeping his cool than say, Scotland, but he was certainly no saint. Canada could hear him grind his teeth, very audibly, and reply, "No..." He fumbled for a bit, for an answer, but before he could come up with one he deemed equal to England's retort, the blonde already had another response.

"I suppose you think you know what's better, with your nonsensical little language and lack of proper culture? Oh, that would be just lovely, letting the ignoramuses rule themselves!" England let out a false laugh, as though to make Wales think he thought it was a funny idea. He continued before Wales could get a proper, indignant word in. "But no, you need a guiding hand, a force to keep everything from turning back to the Dark Ages, and the only natural, capable force is me! Imagine, just imagine, what the world would be like if each little individual culture were to rule itself, no matter how preposterous and savage their ways? Why, the world would fall to ruin, and there would never be an end to the fighting! This way, with the superior ruling over the inferior, is and always will be the proper balance of things."

"But... That's not... I'm not inferior!" Wales, as Canada recalled, certainly had no formal education, or natural talent at arguing, and as such could give no more intelligent reply than that. It was then Canada remembered that he was not here to eavesdrop, and he hurriedly tiptoed across the open way, leaving the sight, but not the sound, of the arguing pair behind. He could hear England digging into Wales once again. "Which one of us spends his time writing poetry and watching sheep, hm? I'll kindly ask you to go back to the creatures; your stench is almost more than I can stand."

"The sight of you is more than _I_ can stand!" Came the snap, and Canada heard Wales rather loudly come towards the foyer - where he himself was, about to ease the door open and slip outside. However, England couldn't seem to resist one last jab, as he stepped out of the parlor and into the opening of the foyer. "Please, do go out the back door; I couldn't stand it if people thought you were an acquataince of mine."

Wales brushed past Canada, shot one last molten glare at England, and pointedly slammed the front door on his way out. England gave a tsk, shaking his head. "Hard to believe we're brothers... Hello Canada, what _are_ you doing in the foyer?" Canada bit his lip, not daring to turn around and face England. He knew it was already given away that he was trying to sneak out of the house, due to the shoes in his hand, but he couldn't bear it if England say the letter and took it away. "I'm... I just wanted to go out for a walk."

"You can walk in the garden, if that's all you want to do." England didn't _seem_ angry. Maybe he was still happy with the way he'd just belittled and insulted his brother. Canada nodded quickly, turned around part way, keeping the letter plastered against his body out of England's sight. "I suppose I'll go do that," he said, altogether too fast. As he tried to duck by England, turned at that odd angle, the empire stopped him, with a hand on the shoulder.

"What could it be that you're so eager to hide from me? A stain, perhaps? Or is it worse?" Canada put the letter behind his back as England turned him, causing a loud rustling of the paper. England lifted an eyebrow, his other hand striking like a snake's behind Canada's back and taking the letter. Canada immediately tried to form an explanation of what it was. "I-It's just a list... of things I need to make dinner! I-I was going to make a special dinner, and- NO! Don't open it!"

But with a small cracking noise, England had broken the seal and opened up the letter. Canada's whole body ached with the need to take the precious letter back, and run away with it- but where could he go? And what would he do? England would be so angry with him, he might even _cane_ him. So he stood there, feeling like a small, helpless child as England's brow darkened.

The silence was unbearable, like the calm before a storm. It wasn't long before finally the stern voice of England broke it. "So, I'm a bastard, am I?" Canada looked down at the ground, suddenly regretting that he'd even mentioned England at all in his letter. It should have just focused on France; his Papa hated England, why would he even want to hear about him? What a stupid, stupid idea that had been.

England's fingers grasped Canada's chin like a vise, forcing him to look up. "I asked a question. Am I a bastard, Canada?" Canada's purple eyes were fixed on the spider in the corner of the ceiling. "No sir." His chin was released, and England pretended to read over the letter once more, an mock-thoughtful look on his face. "What a change of heart, in between writing this letter and now. Because, as it clearly states, you think I'm a bastard."

Canada had no reply. But England continued on, smoothing out the letter in his hands, but not reading it. "But what's really the worse matter here: you're trying to write to my enemy. Perhaps you were intending on telling him about my plans, or my secrets?"

"N-never!" Canada gasped, eyes widening at the accusation. "But, we're not at war with France, so I didn't see why I couldn't contact him!" England raised an eyebrow, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Of course... That's right, you couldn't have known..."

"Couldn't have known what?" The answer was something Canada dreaded, but he had to know. England let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. Then he locked eyes with Canada, eyes hard though his face professed sympathy. "We _are_ at war with France. As are several other nations. And the damn frog is taking a big bite out of Netherlands. I expect he'll choke on it; he never did have enough sense in that French head of his."

Canada clenched his teeth. He wanted to yell at England, to tell him that France was smart enough to win battles, even if he'd lost many, even if he'd lost Canada to England less than fifty years ago. "He had sense enough to beat you in the Hundred Years' War."

It was softly murmured, but it had quite the effect. England swiftly paled, and his fingers dug into Canada's cheeks as he violently grabbed his face with his right hand. "He did not really 'win,'" England whispered dangerously, pulling Canada's face closer, "and it was only because of that girl! Nothing more than a fluke, really. Do you understand?"

Canada was unable to nod, but he let out an 'uh huh' rather timidly. His face was promptly released. "Right then. About this letter... It _is_ rather treasonous, to be sending messages to an enemy during wartime... And your behavior, it certainly reinforces the idea that you are thinking of rebellion... Are you, Canada?" Canada shook his head. England gave a false laugh. "Of course you're not, you're not _that_ stupid. It must have all been a mistake, a foolish longing for the past that, well, it never really existed."

Perplexed, Canada looked at England in confusion, but didn't dare say anything. England caught his look, however. "France didn't visit you all that often, did he?" Canada wanted to deny it, but it was true; France had been very busy, and Canada had been practically self-sufficient already. "He... He came as often as he could!"

"I'm sure that's what he told you. I fear, however, that it is not true. He only wanted you for your exports, and that's why he left you alone; that's why he didn't take you to live with him." England's words were having a dizzying effect on Canada. Was it true? But... France had always been his loving Papa, every time he came he had treats and hugs and kisses to give him. Canada was more comfortable among his own people, France knew that; that was why he hadn't taken him.

"It's not true..." Canada said rather weakly, stuck in his own doubting thoughts. England shook his head, letting out a sigh. "It is, unfortunately. It's a blessing you were saved from staying with him forever." Canada's fists clenched. "That's not true... It's not! He loves me, and I want to be with him!"

"Do you think he even wants you back now? After all this time? He's probably forgotten about you. It's easy to do, I forget about you half the time. In fact, I doubt there is even anyone outside this house who cares about your existence." The words were cruel, and England seemed rather concentrated on the letter again as he spoke them to Canada, as if to prove he wasn't worth paying attention to.

"He hasn't forgotten... He couldn't have!" Canada insisted, having not much else to cling to in his lonely circumstances. England snorted, still not even looking at him. "He hasn't once tried to get you back, has he?"

The words hung in the air, filling Canada's mind with horrible thoughts. Had France indeed forgotten him? Or did he remember and not even care? Canada's eyes began to sting, but he refused to cry in front of England, not again. The empire, however, taking his silence as affirmation of France's forgotten memory of him, chuckled. "I suppose you won't really be needing this; contacting France, at this point, would be fairly treasonous. I wouldn't want to see you get into trouble."

The sound of paper tearing caught Canada's attention, and he could feel his heart twisting in pain inside of him. That was for France... But would France even care if he got it or not? Would he barely even glance at it? Canada hung his head in defeat. He was alone, truly alone in this house, not a soul to care for his wellbeing.

England handed him back the pieces of the letter, already heading for his office without a glance back. "Do throw those away, I hate littering."

Canada sniffled as England disappeared up the stairs, and went, heavy-hearted, to throw away what remained of his heartfelt letter to France. Little pieces of paper, little pieces of his heart, what was the difference anymore?

/AN/ Well, I really enjoyed writing England there. Who knew it was so much fun? But anyway, again, I am sorry this took so long. It is mostly non-history in this chapter, though the UK became involved in the French Revolutionary Wars when France declared war on them. I don't believe there was a movement in any part of Canada to become France's colony again or anything, but I don't really know. It can be hard to find info on Canadian history sometimes.


	5. Chapter 5

I am excited about this story, even though it's clearly not my most popular. But I hope everyone is enjoying it very much, because what would be the point of writing a story no one likes? But anyway, if I don't update again before Easter, happy Easter everybody!

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Australia wasn't sure why, but England had seemed to be even more unbearable than usual. He knew he was in a war with France, and that surely war was stressful, but why did that have to relate back to him? It really wasn't fair; he wasn't the one defying England, but he was the one suffering for it.

Now, here he stood, in front of the honey he had knocked down while climbing on the pantry shelves to find something to eat, as England berated him. "And what kind of an uncivilised little monkey are you, to be _climbing_ on the shelves? They're not made to support your weight _and_ the food supplies! What did you think you were going to find, snooping around that way?"

"I dunno..." Australia mumbled, staring at his thumbs as he pressed them together. England seized his chin, making him look straight at him. "Do not mumble! Mumbling is for the mentally feeble! Are you some sort of invalid, that you can't articulate your words?"

"I... I guess not?" Australia wondered what articulate meant, but decided not to ponder that just then. At that moment, concentrating on answering England correctly was what mattered. However, he could read increasing tension in England's face, and he deciphered that it meant he certainly had not answered correctly.

"You either are or you are not, Australia, give a definitive answer! And who exactly is going to clean up this mess, hm? We both know you have no concept of 'clean,' so it will have to be me, won't it? Your actions affect our whole household, Australia! Time that could have been spent doing paperwork or preparing dinner is going to be wasted on _your_ mess! What do you have to say for yourself?" England looked down at Australia, a rather angry, yet expectant look on his face.

Australia could feel himself break out in a cold sweat. What was he supposed to say? Did he apologize, or did he insist he could clean it up himself? Was he supposed to 'give a definitive answer' just at that moment? He didn't know, he just didn't know... But England's furious eyes forced him to spit something out. "I'm not mentally feeble, sir!"

England groaned loudly. "Why on earth did I have to get a slow one?" His hand massaged his temples for a moment, as Australia watched in rapt attention. It would appear that was the wrong answer, but... England hadn't started yelling. That had to be a good sign, right?

Then, suddenly, England's other hand released Australia's face, and seized his arm instead, dragging him along behind him as he headed for a different part of the house. "Really, there seems to be no way to teach you! Perhaps this will finally get it through your thick little head!"

Australia felt a trill of terror reverberate through his body. What was 'this'? Was it horrible? Was it painful? What kind of a frightful thing would make him behave perfectly? He didn't dare fight back, though. That was England's number one rule: Do not fight England. And he did not dare cross that line, considering England had made it clear that there were worse things than the chair and the occasional paddling.

"Where are we going?" He said, in a small voice that should have relayed that he was willing to do whatever England told him, so he didn't have to suffer whatever punishment England had cooked up. England shook his head, murmuring, "You will see, soon enough."

And then they stopped, right in front of a rarely used door. Australia stared at it, trying to remember what it was for anyway. England grimly opened the door, revealing an empty, tiny space, which Australia was sure he could not even lie down in. He looked up at England questioningly. There was nothing in there. What was the horrible 'this'?

"Go on, get your arse in there." England practically growled, seeming annoyed that Australia hadn't figured that out on his own. Australia hesitantly stepped in, looking around to make sure there was absolutely nothing else in there. Oh, well, would you look at that, there were spiders. Some dust, to be sure. It was a good thing he wasn't weak lunged. Why on earth was England having him look around in a closet? Was he supposed to clean it, or-

The door slammed shut behind him, clipping his heels painfully. Australia screamed, mostly in pain, but with a good lashing of fear thrown in, as the heavy darkness fell suffocatingly upon him. "England! England, don't!" He shrieked, trying the doorknob and finding it quite locked. England gave a grunt on the other side, saying, "Maybe some time in there will teach you to behave!"

"NO! No, please, I'll behave, I promise! I'll be so good, I swear! England, I promise!" Australia, in his terror at the tiny, dark space, could not think of anything else to do than bang on the door and make vain promises to England. The closet which had been a normal and okay space before was now a box that reeked of monsters and horrible things, unseen in the absence of light. However, his heart sank when he heard the footsteps going away, without so much as a promise that he would let Australia out in a certain amount of time.

"Don't leave me in here!" he wailed, but nothing seemed able to soften the jagged rock that was England's heart.

* * *

Canada had been pondering. It had been a little while since England's verbal attack, but he hadn't stopped thinking about it for a moment. Why hadn't France tried to get him back? He had a couple of theories.

The first was that there had been no good opportunity. Perhaps, he was simply biding his time, waiting until England was brought to his knees in this war to force him to hand Canada over. Canada liked this theory, because it merely meant France was being smart about it, and not trying to force something that wouldn't work.

The second was that he really had forgotten Canada, though he thought that could be due to England's tampering. Maybe he had told France that Canada loved England now, and didn't care for France anymore in the slightest. Since France had not really seen Canada since then, maybe he would have believed England. This theory was one Canada didn't like very much.

He turned over on his bed, letting out a great sigh. In any case, he could not know what was true. England clearly believed the latter theory, very strongly, as he had demonstrated before. It was a painful thought, but perhaps England knew better than he did, having had contact with France over these past years. He wasn't trapped inside this house, wondering what was going on outside. He knew everything, it seemed.

A depressing weight settled on Canada's heart. His Papa had promised, he had _promised_, to always be there for him, if not in body then in spirit. When he had been taken by England, he had been so afraid. He had hidden in various places in England's house, all the time, but the empire had been too busy to really notice. The only thing that had kept him strong was the knowledge that France was there for him, that he loved him, and one day they would be together again.

Now, for the first time, that knowledge had been shaken. He had no idea what to think, stuck in between what might be horrible truth and the lovely daydream. What was there, in this world, for him, if he had no loving Papa? Who cared one whit about him beyond France? It was a question he could not answer, like so many of his questions.

A loud clearing of a throat caught Canada's attention, and there was the devil himself, bushy brows and all, at the doorway. Canada rather unwillingly got off of his bed and into a standing position. "Yes sir?"

"There's a mess in the pantry. I would like you to clean it up." England didn't even pause to see if Canada had understood the whole message, or even agreed to do it, before he turned around abruptly and left. Canada just stared where he had been for a moment, then sighed. It looked as though someone had some use for him, at least. He just hoped the mess wasn't rodent-related.

As he exited his room, he realised there was a noise coming from downstairs: screaming. A troubled feeling entered his heart, and he headed down the stairs with a little more speed than usual. The screaming got louder as he got closer to the foyer, dread building in his lungs. If anyone was screaming, it was Australia. And lord knew, with the strict rules on noise, that child did not scream without due cause.

Into the foyer, then the main room, where the screaming was the loudest. There was not a soul in sight, and Canada was confused for a second, until he located the closet. He couldn't remember the last time that tiny room (if it could be called such) had been used. "Australia? Australia, is that you?"

"Canadaaaaa!" came the wail in response, the child seeming quite receptive to his presence. "Canada, open the door, please, just open it, please please please..." And the pleases continued as Canada reached for the doorknob, and tried it. It was locked. Canada would have sworn, if he was the type. How the heck had Australia gotten the door locked from inside? It was quite the conundrum, but Canada didn't have the time to ponder it.

"It's locked! I'm going to go get England, alright? Just, just stay calm!" And he was about to run off and get the empire, but Australia screamed at him, "NO! No, you have to open it yourself! England won't want it open!" The words made Canada freeze.

Why wouldn't England want it open? The answer, of course, was glaringly obvious. England was the one who had locked the poor child in there. Letting him out would undoubtedly cause a row, one of epic proportions. When was the last time Canada had gone against England? Had he ever? No such times really came to mind.

And so, indecision weighed heavily on his heart. If he defied England now, and helped his fellow colony, when would he ever go home, and get out of this hellhole? First and foremost, his instinct was to protect himself, and be back in a safe environment. His hand fell from the doorknob he had been gripping.

"Canada? Canada? Open the door, please, it's scary in here!" He couldn't. Defiance did not run in his veins, not like America, never like America. "I'm... I'm sorry Australia, I can't." It was forced out, and it tasted horrible in his mouth. There was stunned silence on the other side for a moment, a very short period, before the begging began again.

"I promise I won't tell, I swear! Don't leave me here! Don't leave me!" Canada, however, had to do just that, and he walked towards the kitchen, wordlessly. All he could say had been said. As soon as Australia realised that Canada really wouldn't open the door, he broke down into anguished sobs, which Canada tried to block out. He was no fan of suffering, and honestly, he usually tried to ignore what England did with Australia.

He entered the kitchen, heaving a sigh as he tried to leave behind the memory of the locked door. He had a job to do, in any case. He headed for the pantry, and found the sticky mess rather easily. Stay focused, look at the mess, and don't hear anything, he told himself, as he set to work, Australia's sobs still audible from where he was.

Just focus on the golden mess, and ignore the mess that was England's discipline.

* * *

He had stopped screaming hours ago. There was no way out, the darkness was his world, and would be for lord knew how long. Barely a bit of light entered the domain of the monsters that hovered above his head, ready to swoop down at any moment and take a bite. There was no way to protect himself, not even with the humanly frail hands that covered the crown of his head futilely. He could feel their breath, but no more tears would come, as his face remained pressed against his knees, as though that could protect it.

No noise, no sight, only a musty smell and scratchy, dusty floor for companionship. So, naturally, when there was a clicking in the general vicinity of the door, Australia could only look up in startlement, a flash of fear trying to tell him this was a monster playing tricks on him. But no, light, blessed light, began to stream in, as the door opened slowly. Australia's hands left his head, as he looked up at the face of his savior- and condemner.

"Well, don't just stare! That's a rude way to respond to the man who does everything for you." England, whose face Australia had never thought he could be so happy to see. He scrambled out of the small space, on hands and knees, before making it onto his feet. England gave him a look of derision, but asked him a question instead of belittling him. "What have you learned?"

This was not something Australia had been prepared for; he had quite forgotten that he had done something to land himself in that horrible place. He bit his lip, thinking furiously. There was no way he was going back in there, never! "I learned to behave more like a gentleman, and to not climb on things."

It was a good guess, Australia surmised, as England's face smoothed out considerably. "That's right. Now, we are going to have dinner, so go get cleaned up; you're quite filthy." And indeed, he was. Australia could see the dust on his pants and hands, and supposed that there was probably a fair amount on his rear as well.

"Yes sir!" And, full of youthful energy, Australia bounded up the stairs, relieved to be out of England's presence for whatever amount of time he could be. England could not punish him if he were not around, after all.

* * *

It had been a decent amount of time since the incident with the closet, but still Australia looked at him like he was the one who had locked him in there. He never did anything bad to Canada, but in general, he just avoided him, treating him the way he surely wanted to treat England. Canada just wished Australia could understand; he might not be able to go home, to his lovely, lovely log cabin, if he picked a fight with England now.

But of course, Australia was a rather minor concern, for though they lived together, they never interacted much. It was not as though much had changed, other than the dirty looks that had been thrown into the mix. But no, it was the war with France that Canada was particularly concerned about. He had put the question of whether or not France cared behind him for now, deciding that would be resolved when he was at home.

Right now, he was washing dishes, but he was also trying to think of a way to get into England's office without being seen. Surely, if he were seen by England, there would be a row, and if he were seen by Australia, he would tattle, that was how much he hated him now. Trying to pick a time Australia was in trouble would therefore be the best move, clearly.

But, of course, such a thing was spontaneous. As far as Canada could tell, Australia was trying very hard lately to conform to England's standards, and as such, had only gotten minor punishments that did not take long. Another option Canada had come up with was to sneak in during the night, but again, the office was so near the bedrooms, and the walls were so thin... He feared getting caught.

Supposing he could, perhaps, excuse himself during dinner, he could easily rifle through England's papers to get news of the war; but what kind of excuse could he make that would excuse him from _England's_ dinner? That would take quite a bit of thought. On the other hand-

"I'm glad we could work this out. I think both of us will benefit." That voice. Young, slightly nervous yet confident, with a splash of humor. Canada's eyes widened, and the sugar bowl slipped from his fingers and into the soapy water. It couldn't be, not in this house.

"Yes, I suppose so." England sounded a little tense in response to the visitor, and the stairs creaked as they finished their walk down them. Canada rushed to the doorway of the kitchen, looking out into the main room, and consequently, into the foyer.

He gasped. It was. Before him, smiling a little awkwardly at England, stood his traitorous brother, the United States of America. England was scowling back, but not so fiercely as Canada might have expected. It was more of the everyday scowl he wore, one that America surely recognised. "It's great, because I don't want to go to war with you or France, to be honest. I think I've had enough of war to last me for some time."

Canada expected England to scoff, to tell America that his short history was nothing compared to the years of war he had endured, but he just shook his head. "If you say so."

Where was the anger England always kept simmering beneath the surface? Why wasn't he showing an irritated side to America? Canada could feel his own blood begin to boil. How dare that bastard show his face here, how dare he pretend he had some sort of great suffering! He was free, he knew nothing of how horrible life could be for those left behind. He knew nothing of the fate he had ultimately pushed upon Canada.

"I guess I'll see you another time." America was headed out the door, still as awkward as ever, as though he didn't know how to deal with the empire before him, who had once been his master. England stiffly replied, "I suppose if you must."

And then the defiant upstart disappeared through the doorway, with England coolly shutting the door behind him. Canada wanted to know, why _America_ had been here, what he had been talking about, and why, why on earth, England had let him back here after all he'd done. But he knew better than to ask, and he hurried back to doing the dishes, so England would not know he had ever left his post.

It was only a short while before England came into the kitchen, bearing a bottle of whiskey. He was only walking through, so Canada only got a glimpse, but his heart sank at the sight. This was going to be a long night.

/AN/ Yay! I updated faster than before, ain't ya proud? But yeah, so the history in this chapter is the Jay Treaty, between Britain and the USA, which concerned trading rights, debts and boundaries between Canada and America. It staved off war between the two countries for some time. Also, at this point in the French Revolutionary Wars, France is doing really well. So naturally, England is in a bad, bad mood.


	6. Chapter 6

I went to a dinner to be honored for a speech I wrote for a contest. I feel great. ^^

*Warning for language*

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

"FUCKING BASTARD!" The unearthly howl caused Australia to nearly rip the page he'd been turning in the book England was forcing him to read. His brown eyes widened as he looked towards the upstairs. England was in a right bad mood. Hopefully, he would stay up there, and never come back down here. If he were feeling so rotten, he could always find _something_ wrong with Australia.

Australia's ear twitched as he heard footsteps coming towards him. Well, speak of the devil's helper... "Any idea what England's yelling about?"

It was soft-spoken, but Australia knew the truth about Canada; he would turn him over to England for the slightest thing, or even start behaving like the bushy-browed boss himself, he thought so much of himself. So Australia turned away from Canada, changing positions from his bum to his back in the chair.

Canada gave a great sigh. "Australia... Are you _still_ upset over that? I told you, I couldn't've let you out! England would have just put you back in anyways. Australia- Australia, that's rude!" Yes, yes it was, Australia had to agree, as he stuck his tongue out at Canada. Who did Canada think he was anyway, the mini-boss? It was about time someone put him in his place.

"Shut your gob! I don't have to listen to _you_!" Australia exclaimed, plugging his ears and losing his place in the book. Canada got a rather pink, frustrated look on his face, as though he'd never had to endure someone younger telling him to shut it. Whatever he said next, Australia wasn't sure, because of the singing coming from his own throat. It was kind of funny, however, to see someone repeating something with more and more anger and not hearing a word at all.

The smile on his face must have irritated Canada quite a bit, because he roughly yanked Australia's fingers out of his ears. "Listen to me! I wanted to let you out, but you _know_ we're not supposed to disobey England!" His face was flushed with anger, but his violet eyes were pleading and surprisingly soft. It was as though he were desperately willing Australia to understand his point of view. His lousy, yellow-bellied point of view.

"I don't _have_ to do anything! You're an arse!" Australia snarled back, ripping his hands free of Canada's grip. Canada's eyes widened, then turned stern with a reprimand. "Australia! You can't curse at people, England says not to!"

Australia's eyes narrowed at Canada. He saw what the bastard was up to, trying to take England's place when he wasn't around. Well, he wasn't going to get away with it, not on Australia's watch. "England's not here, and you're not the boss of me! You're just a big, dung-filled, stupid prat, and _I hate you_."

There was dead silence after the damning words, and as Australia glared, petulant anger still giving his eyes that great energy and fire, he could see Canada's lower lip tremble a bit, before he shut his mouth firmly. Canada looked stiffly away from him, as though, through being found out, his shame was too great to meet Australia's righteous anger. "Alright then, if that's the way you want it. We don't... have to be... Oh, just forget it!"

And the defeated colony hastily retreated from the room. Australia watched him go, feeling a satisfaction. If he couldn't beat England's rule, at least he could beat Canada. He wasn't helpless, he wasn't powerless; Canada was, against him.

And that was the thought most prominent in his mind as he tried to find his place in the yawn-inducing book once again.

* * *

Canada's face was red; however, there were more emotions than anger as causal elements. Humiliation. Frustration. The aching feeling that he could do nothing right, no matter how hard he tried. He was just a single stocking, lost without a match here in this hell of a laundry lady's basket.

He stopped in his emotion-fueled clip along the kitchen floor, and stood, staring at the wall in front of him. Off-white paint, what a representation of him! He let a little kid put him down, what kind of a pathetic person did that? As though it weren't enough that England looked on him as so insignificant a colony, and was never kind to him; this, this _child_, who barely knew what it meant to be alive, had already decided he was worthless.

Canada's forehead met the wall. He brought it on himself; he should have let him out of the closet, as empty and futile a gesture it would have been. England would have put him back, he would have ragged on Canada ferociously, and maybe he would not have seen home for much longer, but to be stuck here between hatred and callous indifference?

It was unbearable. But there was nothing he could do to appease Australia now; he had already made up his mind. Of course, Canada didn't know if Australia was the forgiving type; he didn't seem to be, from the little Canada knew of him. And, he couldn't just ask for forgiveness- that would be putting himself down even lower. No, he was quite stuck in the relationships he had made.

He wanted his Papa more than ever. He still remembered sitting with him, getting his hair brushed gently and lovingly. It had been one of France's most important gestures of kindness to him; it was one of the reminders that he was there to take of him. Now, he felt as though he needed that soothing repetition more than he'd needed it back then. Why couldn't France and England get along? Why couldn't they just all live together in peace, even America?

The kitchen door swung open. "That bloody bastard... who does he think he is anyway? We don't need him, we never needed him... Why should I even care?" Canada looked up to see England coming in, hair mussed up and generally looking a little bit frazzled. The green eyes barely registered that Canada was in the room, as his hand went up to muss his hair again. Seeing the film of anger still covering the Brit's face, Canada was quite glad to be left unnoticed.

"He's just a coward, that is all! A spineless fiend! Why, he would have been no use anyway!" It seemed England was talking to one of his 'friends', the ones Canada had never been able to see. Canada tried to stay as still as possible. He did not want to be the one dealing with one of England's temper tantrums; let his imaginary friends do that.

"We still have Austria, we still have Spain; Prussia is nothing! And who really cares if the frog has Netherlands? I never liked him, and I know you didn't!" Canada couldn't help but wonder if England had been drinking; he seemed rather insane right now. England let out a great sigh, one that sounded as though it had been pulled out from the very depths of his lungs.

"Whiskey... That's what I need, some good whiskey..." And with that, England disappeared in the direction of the cellar, leaving Canada alone to his thoughts once again. A breath was released; no one wanted to be around England when he was that way.

Though, of course, he wasn't going to be much more pleasant with whiskey in him. Canada let out a small groan. He was going to lose his mind if he lived around these angry people much longer...

* * *

Australia should have recognised the sound the instant he heard it. It should have been intimately familiar, like the growling of stray dogs in a bad neighborhood, foreshadowing a dismal result for those who got too close. But, like any foolhardy boy, he approached the cur, as though petting from a child's soft hand was enough to smooth away a hard life.

Eyes alight with curiousity, his hand landed on the messy blonde locks of his caretaker, as choked noises and whispered curses and complaints continued to come out. England's head lolled to the side, green eyes dimmed as they took in Australia. A snort escaped from him, but even that sounded unfocused. "What are you doing here?" his words being only a little slurred, and perfectly understandable, though clearly grudgingly spat out.

"Are you crying?" Australia tilted his head to the side, as though seeing England from a different angle would give him a better understanding of what his master was doing. England snuffled rather loudly, sitting up rather crookedly. "'s none of your business."

Australia had a vague feeling he should be drawing away, hiding anywhere England could not reach, but he shook it off. He was not afraid; he was very proud, for a penal colony. So he continued to prod the lion before him. "Is it about... Well, you were saying that... Are you mad cause of America?"

The silence was filled with poison, and Australia began to shrink away. But England grabbed his arm, pulling him close and hissing at him, "Who told you about America? What do you know about him?"

His breath was strong, so that it made Australia's eyes water. Australia's small fingers twitched uselessly at the end of his captured arm, as he tried to lean back. "Ummm... I don't know..." But England's rough fingers dug in deeper, his eyes focused only on Australia, which made Australia's skin crawl. "I said what do you know! Tell me, boy, or I will flay your hide until I wring the truth from you!"

"Um- um- I just- C-Canada told me! He told me that America left! B-But that's all!" Australia's face was pale with fear, as he unwillingly stared England straight in the eyes. Any deviation from eye contact when he was looking at England would surely give him the idea he was not paying attention, or worse, lying. England's eyes narrowed, and Australia was sure, quite certain, that he was going to hit him for daring to have such knowledge in his head.

"And do you know why he left?" It was a bitter, bitter utterance, and Australia was sure whatever was to follow wasn't going to be even vaguely nice. He shook his head, quickly, not wanting to give England the idea that he was slow. England cackled for a moment, head bent downwards, before his green eyes, all too clear and _savage_, met Australia's. "Because he's a bloody bastard who thought he knew better for himself. Well, look at him now, all alone in the world! Who does he think he's fooling, he's miserable! _He's_ the one who needed _me_, not the other way around!"

Australia gave a frightened nod, really having no idea what England was talking about, but knowing that any sign of rebellion would be dangerous. England's eyes narrowed at him, as though suddenly recognising a quality in him he did not like. His hand came up, cupping Australia's cheek in a parody of affection. "You're just like America..." he hissed, and before Australia could deny it, he'd seized both his shoulders, fingers digging in like dull hooks.

"N-no! I'm not! I'm not like America!" Australia squeaked, trying to sound convincing while attempting to wriggle free. Why was England so angry? Why did he hate him so much? The answers were nowhere evident in the room. Growling, England enunciated surprisingly clearly. "Always thinking you know better than my ways... Always trying to be the one who's right... I'm not letting you get away with it too!"

A scream pierced the air when England threw Australia over his shoulder with a loud grunt, and began to walk towards the kitchen. Australia continued to shriek, in sheer terror, thoughts jumbling and jumping from one horrible prospective punishment to the next. Where was England taking him? What was he going to do? Would he be permanently crippled? The possibilities were limited in Australia's inexperienced mind, but that didn't make them any less terrifying.

England went through the door to the yard, ignoring Australia's flailing in his arms, though once or twice he had to stop and readjust his burden. He was swaying quite a bit the whole way, which really only made the whole ordeal more scary. Because, clearly, England was not quite in control of himself; his speech had been slurred and more passionate and emotional, and his gait gave away his lack of fine motor skills at the moment. But if normal England was rather cold and unkind, what was England without that moral leash?

Suddenly Australia hit the ground, rather hard, and pain spread from his hip. He looked up, eyes wide and trying desperately to see what England was doing and if there was any way to defend himself from it or make it hurt less. But England had a small coil of rope in his hand, that Australia hadn't noticed he had picked up on the way out.

"If you're going to act like a disobedient _animal_," England said, as he unwound the rope and approached Australia, "then I will treat you like one." And then he pounced, just as Australia had started to rise. A scuffle ensued, with Australia trying to scream for help (to nobody, who on this earth would help him?) and England trying to tie his hands together. Despite Australia landing a good kick on England's chest, pretty soon the much larger nation was sitting on top of Australia and binding his hands.

Australia gasped for breath, suddenly having the horrifying feeling of empty lungs that can't be filled. His shoes dug into the grass and dirt as they kicked uselessly, trying to somehow achieve the goal of being able to breathe. England didn't seem to notice, though Australia's eyes were bugged out, and kept on in the same way. Australia was dying, he was dying, suffocating slowly and England didn't even realise-! Colors began to tinge Australia's vision, and he was sure, so sure, it was the end, he was gone and not thing had ever gone his way-!

England got off, and Australia took in a huge, grateful breath, coughing fitfully after that. Tears started to come to his eyes, but there was no time to dwell on the horrible experience. England yanked him to his feet by the rope that bound his wrists together. "Come over here, now!"

Australia staggered in the direction indicated, until he fell to his knees on the roots of a good-size tree. England was giving him a rather triumphant, smug look, as he tied the other end of the rope to a branch clearly out of Australia's reach. "Just you try escaping from this one! I'll teach you one way or another to obey me!"

A shiver went through Australia, and he looked up at England pleadingly. "It's cold," he whimpered, huddled over his own arms for warmth. England gave him a smirk, placing his hands on his hips and speaking condescendingly. "Well, you should have thought of that before, you delinquent!"

And with that, England headed for the house. Australia cried out after him, but it seemed as though the empire had already put him out of his mind, slipping inside the house without a qualm to spoil his mood. Australia sobbed, hating the dark, hating the night, hating the cold.

Why couldn't England just love him?

Up in one of the windows, he was sure he could see another head peering out. But this one too disappeared, and he was left quite alone.

* * *

England got drunk twice more, once over Spain negotiating a peace treaty, and then over Austria doing the same. But never again was Australia caught around him during that time; he had finally learned to hide, just like Canada. And Canada couldn't help but be relieved; he hated the sound of the boy crying or being punished, almost as much as he was sure the boy hated him.

England, Canada knew, would never have done that had he been sober. He had done the same thing with Canada before, mistaking him for America and showing his feelings towards the rebel with a switch. He never apologized, just as he hadn't in this instance, but that didn't mean he wasn't sorry.

Or at least, that was what Canada tried to tell himself.

/AN/ Alrighty. So, history in this chapter is that, at different times throughout the year, first Prussia, then Spain, and lastly Austria negotiated peace with France.

Again, punishments and behavior between Canada and Australia don't really reflect real life history, that I know of. I actually have no idea what the feelings were between Australians and Canadians at that point, if there were any. And of course, we've all seen how England goes with his feelings when he is drunk.


	7. Chapter 7

I regret to inform the readers that I have made a grave mistake: Austria did not negotiate peace with France, not at that time. So just forget that bit. I believe, very sincerely, that I am going crazy, cause I am remembering lines from the source that are not even there. So certain was I that I had it correct in my head, I went ahead and wrote out the last bit- but, oh dear, I really am going insane... T.T

Oh, and to those who don't allow PMs/reviewed anonymously - Thanks for your reviews! I really do appreciate them.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Australia was sprawled on the couch, just enjoying getting the chance to bend his spine in any direction he chose, instead of keeping it ramrod straight. His head dipped to near the ground, his feet resting on the top of the backrest. This was the way an afternoon was meant to be spent.

If England saw, he was a goner, but... For the first substantial amount of time, England had gone out of the house. It was almost as though the building had been emptied of a suffocating presence, from the attic to the cellar. The air was better, the furniture was softer, and even Canada looked nicer!

Though of course, he wasn't going to talk to that old, controlling ninny. He could eat dung for all Australia cared. Bare toes wriggled in the small breeze coming in from the finally open windows; how could England, or anyone, bear to live without fresh air? It was a conundrum that had always puzzled Australia. England probably subsisted on burnt food and fear. Though, everyone in the house subsisted on burnt or otherwise harmed food, in all honesty.

"Bleh." Canada might like that food, but Australia was sure he had tasted much better! It was hard to remember for sure, however. The days before England were getting rather hazy, he hated to admit. He distinctly remembered not having to wear chafing clothes, however.

"Australia!" Australia nearly fell on his head at the horrified squeak. It made him a little grumpy, so he grouched back at Canada, "What? It's none of your business!"

Canada, however, had this strange, practically anguished look on his face. "No one told you that you could get into the biscuits from Scotland! And the jam, too! Australia, what were you thinking?" Australia was not at all disturbed, feeling the cool stickiness of the jam on his face with one finger. "England's not here. He won't know. And it's none of your business anyway!"

"_He will be back_! Australia, he'll notice the things you ate are missing!" Canada wrung his hands, and Australia almost dismissed him as a worrywart... Until the logic caught up with him. The food would indeed be missing, with nothing to replace it. England might just decide to check his stores, and then woe to Australia! His eyes widened with horror, and he swiftly righted himself.

"W-what am I gonna do?" he whispered, before repeating it again. "Canada, what am I gonna do? I don't want to go in the closet, I don't want to go!" He'd begun to cry, breathing rather rapidly as he looked around, frantically, for some sort of solution. Of course, there was none. He was trapped, he would die in that horrible box, or England would hit him with that cruel paddle, or do something even worse that Australia couldn't even think of.

He was startled when Canada's hand gripped his wrist. "Come on, I know where to get some more... If we leave the house now, we might be able to get everything we need and make it back in time." Australia didn't question, didn't even stop to get on some stockings and shoes, as Canada pulled him towards the door with the energy of someone caught in a dangerous situation.

And the door was opened, and for the first time in a long time, Australia saw the road. There were rocks on it, and they were rough on his feet, he soon discovered. It made him drag behind Canada, but the blonde was relentless, pulling him towards a building next to England's house. "What are we doing?"

Canada didn't slow his pace in the slightest when he replied, "We're going to Scotland's house. He has jam, and he will probably have more biscuits." He released Australia's arm, heaving open the doors to the unknown building. What would be inside, Australia wondered, and what did it have to go with going to Scotland's house? It would be so awesome if it were a magic carpet!

But as Canada re-grasped his wrist and pulled him in, Australia saw that this was not the case at all. In fact, what he saw was one of those long-faced creatures that had pulled the carriage that had brought him here. For a moment, he just stared, even as Canada struggled to get various pieces of leather and such off of the hooks on the walls. Then he moved forward, hand extended towards the long snout.

"Hullo... I'm Australia. You're pretty big, aren't you?" The horse snorted, seeming a little reluctant to let the small hand near its face. But Australia made little, soothing noises, as he frequently did with animals he encountered, and then began to stroke the front of the horse's face. She -Australia had decided the horse was female- calmed, allowing continued contact. "That's right, you sweet thing..."

Canada hefted a huge leather thing onto the horse's back, and Australia could see he had previously put on some sort of cloth pieces. The horse started a little, but more murmuring and petting was enough to calm her down. As Canada tightened the thing, Australia's curiousity was aroused. "What's that? What are you doing to the horse?"

"It's a saddle. We're going to ride to Scotland's." Canada's face was a little pale, and his voice was a little less soft than usual, though one could hardly call it rough. Australia's eyebrows lifted up his forehead. "Really? Can she carry both of us? Will she mind?"

"Move, just a moment," Canada commanded, carrying something else that he inserted into the horse's mouth, as Australia backed away. "Yes, she can carry both of us, and she's used to having people ride her. But it's usually England. I don't... Well, I haven't ridden a horse in a long time..."

"Oh, alright." Australia's fears were relieved. The horse would not be bothered. But something seemed to be bothering Canada, as he stood back and surveyed her. He chewed his lip, a habit Australia had noticed more and more. What a strange thing to do, honestly. If he wanted to chew on something, why didn't he just eat or bite off his nails? That was what Australia did.

"Are we going to get on now?" Australia prompted, a ride on a horse's back sounding more and more interesting every moment. But Canada finally shook his head. "Australia, I've been thinking it through. If I go alone, she'll be able to go that much faster. We don't both need to go, so you're going to stay here and _promise_ not to get into anything, understand?"

Australia couldn't believe it. Here was the opportunity of a lifetime, and Canada wanted to keep it all for himself. He really was self-centered, just as Australia had known all along. "But I want to come," he whined, stamping his foot just to make it clear he wasn't making up his feelings. Canada shook his head, putting both his hands on Australia's shoulders. "Look, I'm going to go as fast as I can; but you need to stay here. This isn't a game. Be good, and I'll be back soon."

With that, he scrambled onto the back of the horse, rather as though this were the second or third time he'd done so. Australia crossed his arms, pouting. How could Canada do this to him? "You're mean!"

Canada heaved a sigh, but started to head for the open doorway. "I'm doing it so you don't get into trouble; please remember that." And he was off at a trot. Australia stuck his tongue out at his back, then viciously yanked the doors closed from the inside.

A malicious spirit took hold, and he also bolted the doors shut. He would like to see Canada get back in after that!

* * *

Australia probably supposed that horse riding was fun and easy; that must have been why he was so bitter about not getting to come. But it had to be done, even though it was that little ingrate's fault. Canada could go faster without the extra weight, and they only had so much time.

He was just lucky it wasn't that far to Scotland's abode. It would have been even quicker to go to Wales', but of course, there was no guarantee he would have what they needed. Canada wished, for a moment, this were a pleasure visit; Scotland was his favorite brother, and the same was true in reverse. There was not a visit from Scotland that Canada could ever recall regretting.

The burly nation would hug him and rub his head, commenting on how his locks were far too soft for a proper man. Then it would be conversation, pleasant, honest conversation. Or, the few times that he had visited Scotland, and not the other way around, Scotland would try to teach him things, anything from making haggis to whittling to his history. It was always interesting, and that was a far cry from England.

But already, he'd been riding for long enough that he was beginning to get sore. He didn't get a lot of opportunity to exercise, much less ride a horse. He'd always felt like he was wasting away inside that dusty house, and now he knew it was true. How much longer did it take to get to Scotland's? He hated to think of the distance.

And, in the dull stretch of time, his thoughts wandered back to the worry always nagging at the back of his mind: How was France doing? He'd heard from England's drunken outbursts that Spain and Prussia had both negotiated peace; it was just Austria and England against France now. But what if that was all it would take? What if France slipped up, or started using a certain strategy too much?

He didn't know if France would be destroyed if he lost. Lots of countries had lost wars and not gotten destroyed. But of course, there countries exactly like that, such as the Roman Empire. It was disheartening, not knowing for sure all of what was going on.

Canada blinked, slowly, as he came to a fork in the road. Right, or left? Which way led to his favorite brother? Could he recall? It came, like a snail on sand, that he should go right. He let out a heavy sigh, guiding his horse towards the right. Why hadn't he thought to bring something to eat and drink? He was going to be riding most of the day, there and back; well, he could ask Scotland for victuals, and he could brave it until he got there.

But his throat was parched. Swallowing was like rubbing sandpaper together, and he raised a hand against his forehead. Was it really that warm today? He didn't think it would be. It hadn't seemed that bad when he'd first left the house. Probably because he wasn't exerting himself then.

A small smile quirked at the corners of his lips. Australia was probably enjoying himself, after a small temper tantrum that he hadn't been able to go. The child loved the warm air, more than anything. It was almost comical to see how he'd bundle up in as many clothes as he could when it was cold. He would probably love a proper fur coat, Canada thought. Maybe someday, he could give him one, when he went home.

Ah yes, the cold and the right animals, the trees and ice and snow. It was everything Canada loved about home; give him a huge forest over England's back yard any day. And of course, there was the case of Kunimanto. He loved that bear. He'd been so heartbroken when England had made him leave him behind. Of course he knew that Kujinko could take care of himself, but he liked to think the bear was just as lonely as he was, waiting, just waiting, for him to come back.

It really was rather warm. He wouldn't describe it as hot, per se, but he was sweating quite a bit. Why hadn't he thought to pack some sort of beverage? Even as he licked his tongue over his lips, he could feel the dry, chapped bits sticking up like sharp paper. Why hadn't he thought of it?

Maybe there would be a stream along the road, with a little bridge going across it. He just had to watch for that, and he would be fine. The horse, the ever-dependable Cora, would be happy to get a break too, he was sure. He could faintly remember when England had first gotten that horse. She'd been a young horse, but not a foal. She knew how to be ridden.

Of course, the poor dear had less and less of that over the years. England would only take her out for business, and then only sometimes. Typically, he hired a carriage to be transported to and from his constant work. Poor Cora. Canada absently patted the side of her head, as though that would make up for being just as trapped as he was.

He needed to slow down, he needed to _slow down_; he was going too fast. It was as though the world were speeding by him. But it was also blurring and sharpening in succession, and he was feeling flashes of hot and cold touching him randomly. He needed to slow down.

His spirit was out of his body, his eyes saw without a mind to comprehend it- flashes of color, he flew, he was hit on the head by a great man! Cora, where did she go? Tiny people, with wings, with morphing faces, were running everywhere, all over his head, all over his body! What was going on?

* * *

The door slammed shut, as England grumbled about a 'bastard.' Australia, who was in the next room over, had already cleaned off his face, but even then he paled. Canada wasn't back yet! England would notice, he would see that Australia had been eating the things he wasn't supposed to!

"Canada! Canada, get down here, boy! Where in hell is dinner?" England called up the stairs irately, and Australia could hear the rustling sounds of England taking off his outer coat. While he did that, Australia was slipping back on his stockings and shoes. What was he going to do? England would kill him, he would die a horrible and painful death!

Tears began to spring to his eyes. _Why_ wasn't Canada back yet? Did he think it was funny when Australia got in trouble? _That_ was probably the reason he had left him behind! And maybe there was something bad Canada had done that he wanted Australia to get the blame for! The injustice of it all took away Australia's breath, as anger started to color his cheeks. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't! Why didn't Canada ever get in trouble? He was the one who really deserved it!

"Canada! Are you listening?" There was the clomping of England's shoes going up the stairs, presumably with him in them. Australia tried to think of a reasonable excuse for eating the food. Maybe he could say Canada had forgotten to feed him, and he was hungry.

He shook his head. That would never work, England always said doing the correct thing could take all kinds of suffering! Australia began chewing on his nails. He had no answer, he had no _answer_! England continued to clomp around upstairs, opening and closing doors.

"This not amusing! Come out this instant!" The descent down the stairs began, and Australia grew more frantic. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't a big kid; he didn't know this stuff! He chewed particularly viciously on his pointer finger nail, wincing when he bit down to the quick. He didn't know, he just didn't know! And then, England came into the room, spotted him, and headed for him.

Australia's mind was going blank even as it screamed for him to come up with an answer, a reason he had needed to eat the food! "Australia, where is Canada? And do not lie to me." England's serious face looked down on his, as though daring him to crack and start sobbing uncontrollably. It took Australia a moment, but then he realised what England was saying. He wanted to know where Canada was? Well, he didn't see any reason he shouldn't tell him.

"He's going to Scotland's house." To say England had been shocked was an understatement. To say he quickly turned angry was an even more of one. "HE'S WHAT?" England shouted, face an ugly purple. Australia flinched back, suddenly feeling less sure that sharing that information was a good idea.

"He's going to Scotland's house," he mumbled, afraid to say it again just as loud. England looked like his face would explode at any moment. He seized the front of Australia's shirt, pulling him up off his feet. "Why in Hell did he do that?" he growled, tone easily conveying that lies meant death. Fear sent Australia's brain scrambling to find an answer. "He- he- um- Hewenttogetjamandbiscuits!"

"What was that? Speak like a human being, you little savage!" The words, just as dangerous as the first, made Australia speak much more clearly, though in a trembling tone. "He went to get jam and biscuits..."

There was only silence for a moment, before England narrowed his eyes at Australia. "And why exactly did he go do that?" Here was the moment that could change his life forever. Australia was pertrified. He couldn't say why, he couldn't tell him he'd done it! Why had Canada left him here to take the fall?

"B-because Canada ate some!" Where had that come from? He'd just lied about Canada! But... But Canada _was_ the one who'd set him up like this... He was the one who deserved the punishment for being so sneaky, Australia tried to reassure himself. England let go of him, and headed for the door. His coat went on with a swish of cloth, and he paused for a moment, to stare Australia in the eyes with his burning green orbs. "If I find anything out of place when I get back, you and the paddle will become closely acquainted. Understand?"

Australia nodded faintly, and England broke off the eye contact, and disappeared out the door.

* * *

The first thing Canada became aware of was that he was moving, slowly, along the ground, and that only his left leg was suspended in the air. Slowly, his eyes opened, and with sight of the sun, a throb went through his head. What... what had happened? Fuzzy rays of light played at the corners of his eyes, but he could make out a brown shape, must be Cora, ahead of him.

He put out his hands, trying to stop or at least slow the steady dragging. It did nothing, as he felt the dirt and rocks slide under his fingers, but that was not at all alarming. He lay still for the next few moments, before another thought came, slow as mud. Why was he being moved in this particular manner? There must be a discernable reason.

Inspection of the situation, as his eyes cleared of the blur more, showed him that there was indeed a reason. His foot was caught in Cora's stirrup, and she was ambling forward rather amiably. Canada had the vague thought she believed she was doing this out of kindness, that she was trying to take him where he needed to go.

He tugged his foot free, in any case, and moved to sit up. But as soon as he lifted his head a decent way, another great throb went through it, and he dropped back with a small groan. He couldn't get up. That was the only thought that went through his head, until the thought that no one but Australia knew where he was entered.

What would happen if Australia didn't tell? Or, what would happen if he did? Worse yet, what if he told England and England just didn't care and he left him out here to die? A flash of horrible, sorrowing fear went through Canada's chest. He couldn't just be left out here! Someone could take him and hurt him, animals could eat him, anything could happen!

His arms were tightly pressed against his chest. He wanted to be safe, in France's arms, in anybody's arms! Sadness welled up inside him, until it leaked out his eyes. What was he going to do?

Canada lay there helplessly, feeling his head ache even more with the tears. Who was going to save him now?

* * *

Australia didn't dare even look at the jams, because he knew that if he ate them again England would know it was him and not Canada. Yes, he was getting hungry; but whatever England was going to do to Canada when he caught him, he did not want done to him.

He also didn't dare to get even the littlest bit undressed. So he sat, uncomfortably, on the couch in the parlor. There was nothing to do, because he wasn't really one for reading when he didn't have to (what fun things were there to read anyway?) and he had no games.

Playing an imaginary game might be good, however.

Australia promptly crawled under the couch; he was a rabbit in its burrow, hiding from a dingo. Of course, there were no dingos in England, though there were many rabbits, but he didn't let this dampen his spirit. He was a cute little rabbit, but not a baby - babies were helpless and kind of stupid.

And of course, he had very sharp teeth. Rabbits bite when you corner them, sometimes; that was what he had learned when he'd first attempting to pick one up. The poor thing must have been very frightened, to lash out at him like that. Australia sighed, pressing up against the wall under the couch.

Rabbits were scared of the world around them. Rabbits tried to hide, tried to keep people from picking them up and hurting them. From locking them in a closet or hitting them with a paddle. Or being eaten too.

Australia was still silent, thinking on rabbits, before letting out a growl. That was what he would do if he were cornered. Rabbits liked to growl to get people to go away. They were very smart creatures that way, but they weren't as loud as dogs. They ate green stuffs and cuddled up with tons of brothers and sisters. Australia rested his chin on his paws, wishing he could stay a rabbit forever.

Everyone loved rabbits.

* * *

Canada had managed to roll over, and was crawling in the direction of Scotland's house. He hoped he was, anyway. Disorientation had filled up about three-fourths of his mind, so that his thoughts were rather limited to the fears he would be stuck out here at night, and that his head would finally give in to the pain and blood and such would leak out his ears and nose.

The gravelly bits of dirt were digging into his hands and knees, and his breeches were surely ruined, but yet he went on, powered more by will than by being in condition to be doing this sort of thing. He couldn't be left out here, he couldn't... He couldn't stand if he were left out in the dark!

Scotland would know what to do. He would take care of him, all he had to was get there, just keep putting one hand in front of the other. He tried, desperately, to banish from his mind the thought that crawling was infinitely slower than going on horseback, and he really had no hope of reaching his favorite brother's house in time. He would be out in the dark, a fact he could not face.

Not in the dark, not in the dark... He didn't give pause to think about why he hated it so much, or what he could do to protect himself in the inevitable situation; it was all a mantra of fearful murmurings. If he could run, if he could just lift himself onto his feet, he could go faster, he was sure of it; but several such attempts had been painful, and had ended with him falling to his knees out of sheer dizziness. That was why his current position made so much more sense. He couldn't fall so close to the ground, at least not painfully.

As of just that moment, his head throbbed more painfully, and he had to sink down towards the ground, curling in on himself a little bit. He couldn't stay here like this, his mind feverishly told him, he had to keep moving! Did he want to be eaten? Canada tried to get back up, but his head felt as though it simply had to remain against the ground. He began to cry, rather softly, because any harder and he would hurt his head even more.

He wanted to get up, he really did! He just couldn't, he was helpless, food for ravenous dogs! Canada threw his fist against the ground, then regretted it as the force jolted his head. If France were here, he would take him home and take care of him and never let him go away alone again! He would be safe, and cared for, and he wouldn't be out in the slowly cooling _wilderness_!

Even his current home was beginning to look good, however. At least the walls that kept him in kept other things out as well. At least Australia and England had no intention of eating him. Even if no one cared about him, it was safer than the woods, and in the current circumstances, that was very, very appealing.

Suddenly, a noise made itself known to Canada's ears. His heart jumped out of fright. Was it an animal? Clearly yes, but it sounded like... a horse, going at a canter, it seemed to Canada. But who was it? Could it be someone who would to help him, or would it be a dangerous stranger? He tried to strain his neck to see who the person was, the Samaritan, the Pharisee or the highwayman.

But try as he might, he found that moving in such a manner was impossible. Oh please, he prayed, don't let it be England, he'll dispatch me as soon as save me. The speed of the horse picked up to a gallop: he had been seen. It was rescue and safety or death and torture, Heaven or Hell, no limbo in between! He was done for or he was saved, based on the mercies of Fate rarely allocated to him!

"Whoa..." The rider was male, the rider was firm in voice, as though he'd decided on what he was going to do, the rider was vaguely familiar... There was the noise of cloth sliding off of leather as the rider got off of his horse, none too far behind Canada. Canada could _feel_ him coming closer, ever too close for a stranger ever to be to him, and he cringed in on himself, letting out a small whimper. He didn't want to be killed, some body eventually -or never- found in the woods!

"Well then, a fine mess you've gotten yourself into." The tension didn't leave Canada's body, though he recognised the voice. England. He would probably be furious; his tone already gave away that he wasn't happy to be out here in the early evening!

A sigh escaped from England. "I suppose I'd better get you back, even though you've clearly lost my horse." Canada didn't dare look up, even though England was easily within view. He didn't fight when England hefted him up, but he did gasp in pain at the movement. His fingers clenched in England's coat as he trudged back over towards his horse, and tears started to escape from his eyes. This time, they were tears of relief; England wasn't going to leave him here, or get rid of him. But also, he was ashamed at having caused so much trouble. It was no wonder England didn't like him.

A new jolt of agony as he was shoved up onto the horse, with England following shortly after. His arm was tight around Canada, keeping him on despite his tendency to slump forward like a rag doll. His other arm was used to direct the horse with the reins. They went at a trot, but it was still a horrible battery to Canada's poor head. England didn't ask questions as they head home. Canada was glad for that much.

He didn't currently have answers in his head.

* * *

Australia was watching at the window, stomach grumbling fiercely. He'd been this way for what seemed like ages, eternities suffering the tortures of the flesh. He was terrified; not because he had done something wrong, but rather because he was sure he would do it soon, if no one came home to feed him.

Everything was still in place; there was no way he could get into trouble now. Plus, Canada would probably be in so much trouble for leaving, anything he did would pass by the wayside. Which made it a sore, sore temptation to break into the biscuits and jam again, but what if England happened home before he cleaned things up? Then he might very well get into huge trouble.

And so, here he stood like a statue, little frown on his face as he watched the road. Suddenly, however, his eyes brightened. Here came the horse, and England, and Canada- why was Canada lolling in England's arm that way? An answer came to Australia, and he pursed his lips in distaste. Canada had been drinking. Was that the kind of person Scotland was?

England disappeared into the horse-building, so Australia ran towards the door they were sure to come in, and waited patiently. Would England be mad at Canada for getting drunk? Cause it was something he did all the time, so it might not be fair of him to punish _Canada_ for it.

In moments, the door was slowly opened, and in came England, with Canada on him heavily and whimpering very quietly. "Easy does it, easy does it," England said, easing Canada along like he was some floppy, valuable sculpture. Australia watched in mild shock. Why wasn't he locking him away, or throwing him violently inside the house? A scowl came over Australia's features. So he liked that Canada was copying him, and as usual, was showing favoritism.

England lifted Canada for the trip up the stairs, causing another whimper from the blonde. Australia just shook his head. Being drunk gave people headaches, and that was obviously what Canada had. Stupid drunk. Forget this, Australia had better things to be doing that seeing England and Canada get along like they always did.

And with that, he scurried off to the kitchen, to sit on the table and wait impatiently for dinner.

* * *

Canada couldn't understand why Australia treated him with the same coldness, if not more of it, after he'd risked his hide for the little brat. It had been some time since his head injury had healed and all thought of the missing biscuits and jam had passed, without Australia getting in any kind of trouble, and yet Australia avoided him and gave him dirty looks whenever he was sure England wasn't looking.

It was quite the conundrum, he surmised, and he would probably never understand how Australia took a situation in which he should be grateful and instead was bitter and angry about it. It was just like America. England had poured money into defending them both, and then when he needed money back, America had thrown a tantrum and left. Not without a fight, but still.

In any case, he should be focusing on the batter he was mixing. It was not incredibly often he got to make one of his favorites for breakfast. It was a shame he couldn't refuse the pancakes to Australia. It wasn't as though that selfish little twit deserved any.

The front door slammed open, making Canada jump in surprise. What the heck was that? England rarely slammed doors, unless he was drunk, but it was too early in the day for that. He wouldn't get bad news til later, for sure. "Hello...?" Canada tentatively opened the door into the living area, so that he could see the front door. What he saw made him scramble backwards in fright and shut the door.

It did no good, however, as the door opened rather violently. "Where is he?" the woman demanded, voice thick with an Irish brogue. Canada held tightly to his batter bowl, greeting timidly, "Good morning, Ireland... um, he's upstairs." There was certainly no reason to try hiding the information from the red-with-anger Irishwoman. She turned on her heel, her dark curls flipping off of her shoulder, too furious to be as friendly as she normally was.

"England! Your dear sister is here to visit! What the hell is your problem!" Canada wished he knew what was going on; all he could tell was that there had probably been a fight, considering the ugly purplish bruise on Ireland's cheek. It would end the way it always did: Ireland would start with heated remarks, England would be condescending and a smart aleck, eventually she'd storm out of the house, sometimes in tears. Though, whether of anger or sadness, Canada could never tell. There were always plenty of parting remarks from her, however, so he suspected they were tears of anger.

"I _wanted_ to go with him!" the scream was heard throughout the house. Canada kept stirring the batter, making sure the pan was properly heated. "Because you're an ass, you pompous oaf!" One could never hear England's side, as his speaking was in a much lower volume.

"France is more of a man than you'll ever be! He's-" the shriek was cut off partway through, and Canada calmly poured the batter into similar-sized circles in the pan. England didn't usually get physical with Ireland; this wasn't the typical fight. Australia had to be hiding in his room by now, frightened by all the screaming. Well, if he'd shown even the slightest bit of gratitude, Canada might have been there to explain to him what was going on, but there was no way that was happening now.

"You do not talk to _me_ that way, you ignorant fool!" Oh, England had moved from being infuriatingly calm and snippish to being angry too. That was not good. Canada checked the underside of one of the pancakes. "I'll talk to you any way I damn well want to! You'll never control me!"

The next answer from was not loud enough to be heard; he must have been calmer, or something of the sort. Canada wished he had blueberries to add to the pancakes. That would make breakfast simply divine. "I _can_ take care of myself, I don't need you, I _never_ needed you!"

Canada was not all that curious as to what England replied; it was sure to be something he reserved for those he hated. And Canada had enough bad things in his life, thank you very much. "Don't talk to me like that!"

"Stop it!"

"_Stop_ _it_!"

Canada checked the underside of another pancake; it was ready to flip, so he did so. Ireland was not one of his favorite siblings, because she always seemed angry. Yes, she was nice to him, most of the time, or at least not outright mean; but that was no substitute for a bond.

"_Just shut up_!"

"Make me!" And England was yelling again. Canada didn't even want to know what he was tormenting Ireland with. He flipped over the other two pancakes. "That's right, run away!"

Ireland came rather quickly down the stairs, and looked as though she'd been slapped rather hard. But she wasn't crying. There was a determined look on her face. "He'll be back for me, you'll see!"

"I'd love to see him try." England was standing at the top of the stairs, it sounded like, and he sounded as pompous and smug as ever. Canada checked the underside of another pancake, hoping it was done. England would probably like to eat rather soon.

Ireland left the house with a slam of the door, and that was that.

Canada wondered why France had come for her and not him. It kind of stung. Then he shook his head. Ireland must have more strategical value at this point in the war; he would come for Canada later. Or so he hoped.

/AN/ Whew, that was fun to write! I'm just glad I finally got it done! Anyway, history in this chapter: The French tried to invade Ireland and have the Irish rise up against the English with them. However, the ships wrecked or otherwise didn't quite make it, and the whole thing was a failure. But because of it, the English began cracking down on the Irish, particularly of the political activist type. They did a bunch of torturing and executions and such. And yes, I've driven Canada and Australia even further apart.

And I used my own personal experience in the description of fainting (I've done it more than once), so if it seems a little off, that just means that I'm weird. I've never hit my head so hard while fainting that I could barely move, however.

And also, I am very proud that this chapter is such a whopper. Over six thousand words! Who knew I'd ever have so much to say!


	8. Chapter 8

I have a job! Which means I won't be writing nonstop over the summer, but I will have money! Yay! I'm a cook, mostly. It seems like there are so many different things to keep track of though, so I'm a little nervous. Also, a lot of things might burn me. Yikes.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

"If you don't understand maps, then you'll never know where you are!" Australia would have been pouting more overtly, had he been allowed. As it was, his shoulders only hunched a little bit as he replied, "I know where I am. I'm in your house, I don't need map to tell me that."

England's eyes bugged a little, with anger, not incredulousness, Australia figured. He cringed away, expecting a retaliatory smack across the face for being contrary to England. However, England chose to make an attempt at being gracious today. "Australia," he said rather tensely, "if you ever want to go anywhere outside of this house, you will need to be able to read maps to be able to. You'll even need one when you're back in your own house, so you can come back for visits."

Australia didn't dare mention that on that distant day when he did go home, he was staying there or exploring the world around him, and never coming back here. England continued, taking the silence as understanding. "In any case, you will study this map of the United Kingdom, and then you will study one of Europe. I expect you to be able to name all the major rivers, mountains, and cities."

"But it's just a stupid picture! It doesn't even look like a place!" The protest broke free from Australia, who could not see anything dumber than a map at this moment in his life. England sharply pulled back his hand, and Australia immediately covered his face, flinching away from the impending blow.

However, England seemed to catch himself, pursing his lips and letting a large exhale out of his nose before dropping his hand. But he did not change his stern tone. "Australia, if you do not speak respectfully to me, I will seat you in the closet on a sorely red behind! Is that clear?"

"Yessir!" Australia squeaked, immediately staring intently at the map and pretending he was interested and he understood it. England gave a gruff nod, rising from his seat next to the colony. "I have business to attend to; study England for now, and we will move onto Scotland later on. And do not even dream of deviating from that plan for any reason whatsoever."

And with that, England disappeared out the door. Australia tensely watched him leave, like an animal making certain the predator was gone, before he slumped in his seat, leaning over the map of the United Kingdom. "I hate maps," he sniffled, wiping at his eye a moment; it seemed a little irritated or something.

He did indeed hate maps. He did not have extensive experience with them, nor could he say he had seen more than a couple, but he knew he didn't like them. They were dull pictures that didn't really look like anything. And worse yet, they were covered in writing. Why would a person even get a picture if they were just going to have to read it? That was the whole point of pictures, telling the story without words.

Or at least not so many. He sighed, tracing along the course of the... Thames. He cocked his head to one side. What a strange name for a river. He would name a river something to do with water, like silver fish or mermaid. Thames probably didn't even mean anything special at all. It was just a dumb name, a dumb English name.

His eyes flicked over to a large dot on the map. That one was labelled as London. It was kind of weird, he realised, that he was studying England. He would much rather not have to look at the man, much less his landmass. Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool... It was all more than he needed to know.

He vaguely wondered if a map of himself would be more interesting. England had told him that he was more than one colony, on one very large island. He'd told Australia that the island he was on was ultimately much, much larger than the United Kingdom, and even more so with England himself. It did make Australia wonder, of course: why was he the one who was controlled by England if he was so much bigger? It was a baffling question. It just didn't seem fair that a tiny country like England should be in charge of him.

But of course, there was no room here for rebellion or big britches. 'Cept on England, of course. England was clearly very important, though why he was Australia had no idea. Maybe it was because he had colonies or something.

Australia let out a passively frustrated sigh. He wished Wales were here, or anyone that would make things more interesting. But not that screaming woman, that's for sure. He would never admit it, but he had nearly wet his pants when she just up and started shrieking at England. He hadn't even known she'd been in the house until she'd started up that racket.

He would never make so much noise, not unless he was in danger. And that woman just sounded angry, not in danger, so she really had no right to scare people so badly. If he screamed like that, he would get a paddling, no doubt about that. But of course, adults just did whatever they pleased, with no care for whoever they harmed. He couldn't wait til he was an adult and he could do whatever he wanted. He would sit on the beach and get all wet in the water, all day, and then go out and catch animals.

Australia let out a contented sigh, as he thought of owning many, many animals of his own. He would have horses, and mice, dingoes, and every kind of animal he could get his hands on! Animals were so much better than people, and way easier to understand, in any case. Animals bit if they were afraid or sick; animals wanted you to pet them cause they liked it. Humans were way more complex, always looking for ways to trick and punish. It made him sick to think he was technically one.

There was a small tap against the glass of the window, and Australia looked up. There, in front of him, was a creature he had not had the pleasure of getting to know: a cat. To say he was delighted would be the same as saying the ocean was big. Australia scrambled over to the window, instructing the cat to 'stay right there', and then headed for the kitchen.

England was up in his work room, so there it was no large matter to sneak out of the house and into the garden. All Australia had to do was pick his way around the wimpy plants England considered the epitome of English natural beauty, and he would reach the wonderful creature perched on the window sill. Said animal was licking its paw as Australia approached.

"Hello..." Australia greeted the feline, and it watched him with curious eyes. He reached out for her, for that's what he had decided the cat was, and was able to get her from the window sill into his arms with little trouble. If anything, the cat seemed pleased with the attention. "You're a sweet girl..." Australia cooed, settling down on his bum in the damp grass and stroking behind her ears.

The cat rubbed her head against his fingers, purring loudly. Australia marvelled at the sound, noting that he had never heard it from another creature. Bunnies didn't purr; birds didn't purr; mice did not purr. Cats seemed to have this distinction alone. Australia let out a contented sigh. Being so soft and eager for attention, the cat was quickly within his dearest affections.

"Your name is... Alberta. But I'll call you Albie for short, cause otherwise it's stuffy like England." Albie seemed to be quite fine with Australia's decision, and purred louder. Australia couldn't have told any random passers-by what day it was at that point, he felt so laid back and happy. He had reached a decision. He wanted this cat with him forever and always.

"Come on Albie, you'll like the house, even if it's not as nice as outside. But I'll make a comfy bed for you, okay?" And with that, he trudged inside, cat in one arm and the other opening and closing doors as he went along. He ran into no one, not even Canada, the wraith that floated from room to room looking for something to do.

Getting up the stairs was as much of a non-challenge as getting through the lower floors. Albie was a good cat, and she didn't even make a small meow when they tip-toed past England's work room. The shuffle of papers, the absently muttered curses, even little scuffings of England's shoes, those were the only noises made.

Australia slipped into his room, very quietly shutting the door behind him. There was a beat of silence, before Albie mewed, and Australia petted her head. "You were so good... We didn't get caught at all. You're the best cat!"

Albie agreed with another mew, and Australia threw himself on the bed, making sure Albie was securely laid on his stomach, like a lumpy fur apron. She just looked around the room, in that rather detached way cats seemed to have, while he scratched behind her ears. "I'll be so happy with you here... But member, no noise!"

Purring was the only reply, and Australia would take that to human words any day.

[line here]

Canada was thinking of animals himself, or rather, one in particular.

Kuminto.

That bear who always forgot his name. Was he alright, or had he starved without Canada to feed him? He was a wild animal at heart, Canada knew, from the way he had bit France the first time they'd met him (took off a bit of skin too), and from the way he growled at America when he'd attempted to invade during his revolutionary war. Kumatukio was always protective of him, when the situation demanded it. In fact, it had been just such a situation when they had first met.

Canada had been a tiny, tiny tot, violet eyes wide and wondering as he stumbled through the forest. He'd just been bereft of his mother, a figure very faint and generally of changing, smoky features in his memory, and he hadn't known where he was going or what he was doing. He was so young, he wasn't even sure how he remembered this, except for the striking feeling it evoked inside him.

Falling over his own bare toes, again and again, he had wandered until damage was done, in the form of a large scrape across his knee. He hadn't known what to do, except sit there and cry, seeing only his current pain and situation, and feeling the heavy weight of it being the only focus of his existence.

Then, a soft, wet sensation against the wound had brought him out of his one recurring thought, 'ow', and there Kumagi had been. Kunaharu, a big white bear, standing out against the dark and scary forest like a torch on a pitch black night, was licking his knee. Canada had immediately clung to him like his existence depended upon it, fingers gripping the soft fur and face buried in the front.

And here was where he had realised, later on, that Kumahiro was smarter than the average bear: he had wrapped his front legs around him, as though they were arms, and started licking the top of his head comfortingly. Then he carried him by the back of his nightie to a den, and that was where Canada stayed for a while.

Canada leaned onto his back, instead of sitting on the edge of the bed. Maybe he wasn't a tiny child anymore, but he still longed for the warm comfort of his bear. If Kumaburo were here, he wouldn't need anyone else's attention again. He could just curl up with an understanding individual and never have to worry about England's moods, which changed from mildly attentive to horribly crushing to distant and forgetful in short intervals. He wouldn't care if he just had someone else to hold onto.

His biological clock informed him that it was about time to start cooking dinner, and so he headed on down, passing Australia's room to hear that accursed child murmuring, and then passing England's work room to hear murmured childish cursing. With a shake of the head, he made the observation that the two had more in common than they probably supposed.

Nary a noise was heard as he began to cook the beef in a pot of water, and Canada hoped it would stay that way. His wish was rather shortlived, however, as he heard England come down the stairs, and explode.

"Where the hell is that little bugger?" And much louder, more furious stomping up the stairs followed that. Canada just sighed. Couldn't Australia just obey the rules already? What was so hard about doing what England wanted and not causing problems?

The door slammed open upstairs, and yelling followed. Screaming, and a loud noise of general discomfort and anger from a cat, followed after that. "She's a good cat, I love her! Don't take her!"

What England said, rather loudly, was hardly repeatable in good company, but very clearly outlined his feelings about the cat, its value, and Australia's behavior. Canada wished he could plug his ears and cook at the same time. He didn't like screaming, he told himself, but what he really felt was that he couldn't stand hearing that helpless child in trouble again.

Squeals of pain echoed down the stairwell as two pairs of feet were rushed down it. "That's my _ear_, ow! OW!" England seemed quite aware of what body part he was holding, however, as he burst into the kitchen with Australia in tow by his ear and a black cat in the other hand. He only released the child so he could open the door and throw the cat out full force. Australia let out a loud cry of dismay.

"You hurt Albie! What if she never comes back? OW!" England ignored Australia's distress, fingers clamping onto the reddened ear once again. "You are in such trouble, young man! What have I told you about taking animals into the house? Hm? Spit it out, don't stand there like a mute!"

"Not to do it- but Albie was special!" Canada tried to focus just on the food and pretend they weren't even there. It wasn't hard to make himself unnoticeable, but it was hard to ignore the conflict. England looked like he was about to backhand Australia, which made Canada cringe, but the sound of skin violently colliding with skin did not reach his ears.

"You are a disgrace, you are a little ungrateful wretch! How can you repay me this way for taking you into my house and giving you clothes and food and everything you need? I won't stand for it, you will learn to respect me!" England slipped off one of his house slippers, and dragged Australia towards the main living area.

Of course, Australia saw the slipper and knew immediately what was going to happen. "I don't wanna be slippered!" he cried out, trying to pull away, but undoubtedly finding the pain in his ear to immense. Canada looked away, not really having realised he'd even looked back to watch the spectacle. Ah yes, slippering. Australia was lucky this time, really, since England was going to spank him with a house slipper and not a shoe. Not to say England couldn't still make it hurt, but it was something.

The door to the kitchen swung shut as the pair disappeared through it, and Canada tested the meat to see how it was cooking. He wanted to go outside, where he wouldn't have to hear it, but he couldn't leave the meal unattended. Little thwacks reached his ears, as well as small cries and whimpers and what sounded like attempts to break free. And the worst part was, Australia would probably end up in that closet he hated so much for an hour or so afterward.

Just another typical occurrence, as much as Canada disliked it.

/AN/ The next chapter should be bigger and longer and all that. I am sorry that this took so long, but, allow me to explain. I have begun work, just after finishing school, and both things were fairly time consuming. Things have been rather crazy lately, and actually I'm going to leave for my shift in just a little while, so you can see how it's been. I want to thank everyone who's reviewed, because I really appreciate it. It lets me know how I'm doing and gives me a little spark of excitement in my day. It's largely thanks to reviewers on this site that I've developed quite so far in my writing as I have, so here's to you!

And there is pretty much no history in this chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

Yay! I hope you guys don't mind OCs, cause that's what's coming up in this chappie. I wish I could have Switzerland show up in this story sometime, but there's absolutely no plausible reason. Wah. I'll just have to write a separate story, da? Oooh, or maybe just have a mention... hm...

Oh yeah, and work has been killing me. Who knew I signed on for a practically full-time position... I guess it's what I get for not asking about it. T.T

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Australia could not contain his excitement as he got ready to go, straightening his shirt and fixing his collar, even as Canada's eyes sullenly bored into him. That was what the fussy-britches got for liking France so much. He deserved to be left behind this way, stuck in the sticky summer weather alone.

But in any case, that was not really the focus of Australia's thoughts. He was going on an adventure, a real trip to another country! The fact that the country was not under its own rule did not bother him, because any change of scenery would be welcome, any new faces instantly likeable! His eyes were surely shining with delight at the new prospect, for England was looking a little annoyed.

"As I said, this is not a pleasure trip, Australia. This is a lesson, so that you understand what happens to those who stand against me." The words were completely lost on Australia, however, because in his mind, any trip outside the home was sure to be pleasurable. Sure, when he'd travelled from his original home on a boat, he had gotten horribly homesick, and seasick for a while there, but the ocean had been such an amazing sight, and the sailors were very colorful people to get to know.

"Will we go on a boat?" Australia's excited voice caused England to sigh, but he did answer in the affirmative. Australia cheered, but did at least have the self restraint not to jump up and down. If he displayed too much energy, England was sure to leave him behind.

"May... May I go as well, sir?" Canada's voice was a pale whisper compared to Australia's jubilant tones, but it was quite audible in any case. Why he even bothered asking, when it was clear he wasn't wanted, was beyond Australia. England had told them both specifically that he was taking Australia, and that he expected Canada to stay behind and take of the house. Australia pouted. Canada shouldn't even get to ask, he already got everything, why should he have this trip too?

But England was fairly cool in his reply. "You're not getting a chance to get even a whiff of that Frenchman, if that's what you were thinking about." Canada's head dipped lower in defeat. Australia smirked a little. That meant Canada wasn't going! England, however, continued. "Besides, since his failed attempt to take Ireland from me, I doubt he would dare show his face there again. It was positively disgraceful, a fully shameful effort that ended in humiliation, and I'm sure the frog has given up on getting anywhere near me, or my empire."

Canada didn't look up again, and he was looked down upon by Australia. What kind of a fool would cling to someone like France, the treacherous worm Australia had been taught to despise? Australia would not turn to France if his life depended upon it, of that he was quite certain.

"We must be going now," England said, lifting his bag and turning his nose up just a bit. "Come on then, get your bag and get in the carriage. We haven't time to waste." A thrill went through Australia. He was going, they were going to be gone! Out of the musty house and into the clean, bright air! He skittered along behind England as the nation headed out the doorway, without even a glance at Canada. However, Australia did pay his fellow colony some attention before he left, pausing to extend his tongue in his general direction. The only reaction was a tired glare, but Australia felt heard, at any rate.

Into the carriage and then off into the world! Hopefully, though, Australia thought, this one wouldn't be as bumpy as the first one. His rear might have been toughened by now, but certainly it was no match for its first enemy.

* * *

The carriage ride had been bumpy, but the trip across St. George's channel had been much rougher on Australia's body. Not to mention his mind, to be sure. It took some time to cross a channel, as it turned out, though not nearly as much as to cross an ocean. Australia was quite certain if he ever had to go on another trip on a boat, he was going to vomit. He had been so bored, because no one would talk to him, and England had made him stay in a cabin the whole way over.

But now they were here, on Irish soil! Looking around, things did not look extremely different from what he'd seen of England, which was a bit of a disappointment, but they were somewhere new, and that was what mattered! Even if they were there to see the screaming woman.

Australia thought maybe she was nice when she wasn't screaming. In fact, he did recall that she had nice hair, even if her clothes were a little shabby. Besides, he had screamed before, and that didn't make _him_ a bad person. Perhaps this Ireland would be a pleasant, if not friendly person. Wales had been, and as far as Australia was concerned, strangers generally did seem more friendly than his own 'family.'

England loaded his bag into the carriage in front of him, holding a hand out for Australia's simultaneously. "Come on, we haven't got all day. Do stop staring like a fool." Australia dumbly handed England his bag, feeling a bit of shame at being reprimanded, but not enough to calm his inquisitive spirit. England gestured for him to get in, looking a little impatient and murmuring about how 'the little sneak' would run away if given the chance. Australia didn't connect the words to himself, and got inside.

This carriage was just as nice as the other one, he observed as England settled down across from him, but it was a different color. A rather seasick green, in fact. It was a few shades off from the green in England's house, however. His thoughts turned back to home and how Canada was there all alone. He started to feel the slightest bit of pity, remorse, even, for his behavior towards the unfortunate, but he shook it off. Canada deserved to be home and not with them, out exploring Ireland. He was a cheat and a bully, and he was always trying to pull the wool over Australia's eyes by pretending to be nice and then stabbing him in the back. No, Australia was not sorry he had been rude!

Australia glanced across the carriage at England, seeing he was reading a book. _Gulliver's Travels_, to be precise. He seemed to be smiling, just the littlest bit, as he read, so it must have been a funny book to him. Which, of course, probably meant it was horribly stiff and boring. Speaking of boring, Australia was starting to feel that way. He sighed loudly, then started speaking.

"England, what's Ireland like?" England didn't even look up from his book, but he answered unperturbedly, "She's got the temper of a devil, she's drunk most of the time, and the woman has no sense of class. She barely knows how to take care of herself, honestly. Don't expect to get too familiar with her."

Australia squirmed a little. Drunk? Just like England? His head sunk in disappointment. She was not going to be a pleasant person after all...

* * *

By the time they finally arrived at what Australia presumed to be Ireland's house, it was starting to get rather dusky out. Australia dragged his bag behind him as he followed England up the steps to the nice house, which had at least two floors and had a nice porch on the front of it. In fact, it wasn't so different from England's house back home.

"Do you think she made dinner for us?" Australia's question caused England to turn his head around, confusion evident in his features. For a moment, there was silence between them, Australia's mind racing to think of what he had done wrong, and England's face devoid of the answer. Then, however, England began to laugh, though in a more reserved way.

Now it was Australia's turn to look confused. "Um... What's so funny?"England shook his head, mirth starting to go out of his face. "Foolish boy, didn't I say she was a drunkard? Why on earth would we stay with someone like her? No, her house is none too far away from here; we will visit her in the morning. This, this here," he gestured to the whole of the building, "is my house. I own houses in all the countries and colonies in my empire."

"Even in me...?" Australia could remember a residence he had stayed in. Perhaps that belonged to England as well. England gave a great sigh, and murmur of 'slow child', before replying, "Yes, even in you, Australia. Don't you remember? We stayed there for a while. Though, of course, I'm going to have a better house built. That is, if I ever go back there. You're not a very important place, and rather far out of my way."

"Oh." Well, if Australia wasn't important now, it didn't mean he wouldn't be important in the future! At least, that's what he told himself. England unlocked and opened up the door, heading in. Australia quickly followed, so he wouldn't be chastised for being slow.

"We'll be eating the bread and cheese I packed for dinner. I have packed us enough to last us for our little trip, so we will not starve." Australia was minorly relieved. Now that his stomach's needs were going to be cared for, he began to look around. All the furniture was covered with sheets of cloth, making the house seem to smell and feel of a quiet death. A somber feeling came over Australia, as though any noise here would be swallowed up by the house and the utterer left alone and voiceless.

England seemed perfectly at home, however, pulling a sheet off of the table and sending a cloud of dust into the air. He coughed rather loudly, before folding the sheet neatly and setting it aside. He didn't bother to pull the cover off the chair he sat on. Before he could be told, Australia settled down on a seat next to him, eyeing the bag with a muted eagerness.

Drawing out the cheese and bread, England began to talk again. "I must remind you, we are not here to be friends with Ireland. She is not a desirable person to be around, frankly. I will not tolerate you picking up anything from her. Understand?"

"Yes." Australia would have said anything to get the cheese and bread that was making his mouth water. England muttered a 'good', and then he handed Australia some food, and shortly after reprimanded him sharply for stuffing his mouth. "Will you never learn manners? Honestly, what I put up with..."

* * *

It was a brisk walk's distance to Ireland's house, apparently, so they were walking in the fresh dew of the morning. England had, strangely enough, brought a cane with him, but that didn't really bother Australia. He was delighted, breaking away from his position trailing England like a duckling every so often to try and catch animals he spotted around him. England was not pleased, to say the least.

"Quit behaving like a ruffian! I'll have you know that only savages have such an unhealthy interest in catching animals the way you do!" Australia followed behind England again, for the time being. He loved being out and about this way; there were new sights, though they weren't that different from home. It was still a new place, it was still an invigorating walk!

"Here we are," England announced, as they got close to the small house Australia had seen from some distance ago. Australia was a little surprised, to say the least. "Wait... Is that Ireland's house?"

England held his temple, murmuring something about an 'unbearably slow child', before answering with, "Yes, that is Ireland's house. I thought that particular bit of information was clear." Australia just stared at the shabby house before them, wondering if England was testing him to see if he would figure out that no, all nations lived in nice, big houses, not in ramshackle little cottages.

However, that theory seemed less and less likely as they approached, and England rapped loudly on the door. "Ireland! It's England, open up! I know what you're up to!" There was a great rustling from inside, as though the inhabitant were rolling around in cloth and paper. Australia felt his heart rate quicken. Would Ireland answer the door? Or would she deny them entrance completely?

The former proved to be the case, as a slightly disheveled Ireland met them at the doorway, only cracking it open partway. "Yes? Did you want something?" Her tone was less than congenial, and her eyes were sharply glaring at England. Australia hoped things would smooth out and they would be fed something yummy.

England forced his way past her and into the house, giving her a condescending scowl. "What's all this?" What was all this indeed, Australia wondered, staring at the assortment of metal and wooden shapes. He vaguely recognised what they were: some sort of weapon, but the fact that they could kill him did not manifest in his mind. Rather, the fact that England was angry made him shrink back against the doorway, though he clearly hadn't done anything wrong.

Ireland, however, clearly having given up on the idea of lying without even trying it, stood there resolutely, face a frightening mask of anger. "Isn't it obvious? I'm sick of your shit, and I _will_ be free, even if I have to fight for it!"

Australia pulled a horrified face. _Fight_? They were going to go at each other, _hurt_ each other, possibly even _kill_ each other, all in the name of this intangible freedom? Backed against the doorway in such a fashion that it appeared as though he was hoping his spine would meld into the from, Australia could think of no worse place to be.

With grim face, England cocked his head at Ireland. "Oh, really? You think you can govern yourself now, do you?" He tapped his cane against his open palm threateningly, eyeing her as though trying to see where he should strike first. Australia was very much scared. Ireland was not.

"Yes, I do! Anyone could do better than you, you tyrant!" Her hands were curled into fists, her cheeks were dusted an angry red, and her nostrils flared, momentarily making Australia think of a horse, though her face was not nearly long enough. He tried to make himself inconspicuous, frightened little breaths puffing out his nose. Fortunately, England did not even seem to realise he was in the room.

"You'll take that back before the end of the morning," England said coldly, examining the end of his cane. Ireland's face somehow became darker and more dangerous. "I will not!" she exclaimed, stepping forward in the direction of England. As Australia realised, after the fact, this put her in England's reach. And England used that to his advantage.

Swinging out, the supposed gentleman struck Ireland on the chin, mading a resounding crack and causing her to scream and fall with the force of the blow. Her hands cradled the affected area, a bit of blood oozing out the corner of her mouth. The vulnerable state didn't stop England or soften his blows, however, as he began to vigorously hit her, cane loudly connecting with various bones and soft flesh. In the stomach, on the face, the legs, the arms... there was no place protected from the wicked object.

Australia couldn't tear his eyes away, despite the way they were blurring with tears. His hands clasped, white-knuckled, over his mouth and nose, and his breaths were hardly audible.

"Still think you have what it takes?" England's foot put some weight on Ireland's neck, and she gurgled, blood and spit coming out of her mouth, the area around one eye hideously swelling up and bruises and batterings surely covered by all the cloth she wore on her body. "Any nation could take you down. It would hardly take any **effort**." He pushed harder, causing panicked struggling.

Australia was terrified, realising with horror that Ireland could not _breathe_. It made him sympathy choke, breaths coming in gasps and world starting to turn a little fuzzy at the edges. _Let her go,_ his mind wailed, desperate for peace, for safety. The words, however, were stuck in his throat, just like his breath.

After much thrashing and clawing, England finally lifted his foot, and Ireland took huge gasps of air. She sounded as though she were crying, laying there on the floor like a pitiful urchin who had been beaten for stealing. Her skirt had flown up almost to her hips, and England made a loud tsking noise. "Cover yourself, or are you the wench you've made yourself out to be?"

The taunt did not stir up the infamous Irish temper, and no movement was made to obey England's command. Australia could only stare, not only at seeing more of a lady's skin than he had ever seen, but at the terrible battered sight she was. She may have been crying, but he didn't dare make a sound, watching in mute horror as England leaned over Ireland's naked, exposed legs.

Was he going to hurt her some more? Hadn't he done enough? Australia could only cringe, unable to look away, like a person watching a ship wreck or a building burn.

However, England rather roughly pulled down Ireland's skirt, covering her immodesty. He straightened back up, dusting himself off as though he had simply been out digging in the garden for a moment. He looked over at Australia, and he seemed strangely pleased with the fearful eyes that met his. "Come along Australia; I think the lesson has been learned." He looked back at Ireland, face unreadable. "By both of you, in fact."

Australia was felt frozen, but he managed to march himself over to follow England out. He glanced back at Ireland, who had quieted down, though she remained as still as ever. Would she be alright, he wondered? Would she die of her injuries? But there was nothing he could do, not without probably dying himself too, so he hurried to catch up with England.

* * *

It was a silent day, one Australia spent reading, for the most part. Never had he been so grateful (or grateful at all) for the written form of the language, for it made him appear docile and perfectly behaved, and England would never bother him while he looked as such.

If only there were more interesting books than the ones on English history and various important families. Maybe they would be more interesting if there were more animals involved. Animals tended to make everything more interesting. For example, an empty room. On its own, completely boring. Fill it with cats? Instant entertainment and love and happiness.

What Australia really wanted to check out was the stream that flowed not too far from the house; they had passed it on the way to Ireland's- no, not Ireland. He shut his eyes tightly. He did not want to think of Ireland and her bruised body and horribly thrashing body. Anything but that.

He looked back at the book he was reading. Oh, the Roses War. Sounded harmless, but according to the book, it was actually really violent, just like England's attack on Ireland- No! Australia fisted his hands in his hair, shaking it back and forth bodily. Why did he have to keep thinking of that? It was the last thing he wanted in his head! Why, oh why, had England taken him to see it?

At least it hadn't been him. There was that plus, the fact that he was okay. So... why didn't he feel okay? Why had he picked at lunch listlessly, why had he been staring at walls for part of the day? His stomach felt queasy whenever he saw that cane, so he'd been avoiding the room England had left it in. Was that normal?

No. He was bad, he was abnormal, there was no one as savagely deranged as he was. A normal person would have looked away and covered their ears; they wouldn't've stared at the violent spectacle. The book was dropped into the other side of the chair as Australia gathered his legs to his chest. He wanted to go home, he did not want to be in Ireland.

Canada really was the lucky one, the favored one. He got to stay home, without anybody to bother him. Why couldn't Australia ever be so fortunate?

England's voice cut into his thoughts. "Australia! It is time for dinner! Come, or I will slipper you!"

No further encouragement was needed, as Australia flew out of the chair and into the dining room. There England sat, the same cheese and bread as before laid out on the table. It suddenly didn't look so good as it had the night before, to be honest. The cheese looked too dry and yellow; the bread looked too crusty and stale. How could anyone possibly eat that?

"If you don't eat this time, I'll make you sit in a chair with a stack of books on your head until morning." Oh. _That_ was how someone could bear to eat it. Australia dug in, eating the food without the sensation of taste to accompany his meal.

This had to be the worst trip Australia had ever been on.

* * *

When England and Australia arrived home, Canada was surpised to find Australia remarkably silent. England spoke of his mildly good behavior on the way back, and that he had 'definitely learned his lesson.' And Canada knew there had been some change in the boy, because he didn't even glare at Canada openly anymore.

It was as though he had gone through a great trial, and had not come through unscathed.

When England talked of leaving for Ireland again because she was being rebellious with France's help, Australia made no plea to go along with him. No, he did something strange instead. He shuddered, and pretended to read a book.

Whatever had gone on over there, it had not been good. And Canada wasn't sure he wanted to know.

/AN/ The history in this chapter is... You guess it, the Irish Rebellion of 1798! The main uprisings were crushed about two months before France actually got help through, and that movement was crushed too, though not before an embarassing defeat for the British.

And yes, I have traumatised Australia. Why?


	10. Chapter 10

Y'know what? Work sucks sometimes. I can't go to all my friends' graduation parties cause my boss is seeming a little testy about how many days I'm taking off. But on the upside, my co-workers are interesting, and I never really liked parties all that much anyhow.

*mope*

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

To say Canada was good at sewing was to say that the sky is a green-blue: it wasn't entirely true. But, he could sew just well enough, and someone had to mend their clothing. So here he was, back bent a little as he worked on a pair of pants that Australia had worn a hole in, threading the needle in and out of the fabric like a fish leaping in and out of the water.

He would rather be reading, or perhaps even be out in the garden, where he was allowed to go, but not Australia. It was the special privilege of being so quiet, he supposed. But that brought his mind back to the strange topic of Australia's behavior as of late. It was not that he was a completely changed person; no, England could not have broken the strong personality in Australia. But now he tended to fold his hands instead of fidgetting, and more time was spent sitting still reading or doing something of the like than gazing out the window or escaping out of doors. It was unnerving, and it made Canada wonder just what had happened on that trip.

Had the lad been severely punished? He could have been caned, or even whipped; Canada may not have seen any injuries, but it wasn't as though he had seen Australia undressed or anything. But there hadn't been wincing at sitting down, or a slowness in gait, or any other indicator. Canada's fingers gripped the material of the clothing in his grasp. If Australia had been whipped, or anything of the like, what kind of state of mind was England in? His heart twinged, not only for the danger he himself could be in, but in thinking of the pain that Australia had to have gone through.

England would have never caned America or Canada, back when they were younger. If anything bad had happened to Australia, the blame would rest solely on America's bloated head for changing England this way with his selfishness. Even with the amount of time that had passed, it was something neither England nor Canada could easily forget. Canada narrowed his eyes, wondering if the traitor was truly happy where he was now. Knowing him, he was either blindly embracing freedom, the freedom which the colonies that came after him could never have, or he was actually snivelling for England on the inside, but too proud to admit it.

Canada was so absorbed in his thoughts, that when a pair of thick arms wrapped around him and wrenched him out of his seat, he shrieked, quite firmly jabbing the needle into his finger. The arms immediately loosened, with the person they belonged to asking, in his thick burr, "Are you alright?"

The pain in his finger quickly forgotten, Canada spun around to face his 'attacker'. His eyes widened, and he felt his heart give a leap of joy. "Scotland! What- When did you get here?" A familiar, friendly face! Red hair may have been said to be a curse, but to Canada, it was a happy sight, one he longed to see more often.

Scotland laughed, ruffling Canada's hair. "About two minutes ago. But I guess what you were doing was too interesting to notice me." Canada couldn't help but laugh a little too, smiling widely. "I can't believe you finally came for a visit! How are you?"

Another laugh. "Still strong enough to kick England's ass, if he's given you any trouble. You look so damn pale! Do you ever go outside of the house?" The green eyes were critically examining Canada's body, as though to find something to harass England for. Canada just gave a nervous laugh, hugging Scotland. "Of course I go outside; I just don't do it very often."

Scotland hugged him back, grumbling, "Well, you should. If you get sick, you know that bastard's not going to take care of you." He then released Canada, and put his hands on his hips, looking around. "So, where is the little one he took in not so long ago? I've been meaning to meet this Australia for some time now."

Canada looked down at the floor. Of course he wanted to meet Australia. Should Canada explain that Australia had turned out to be a brat, or should he leave Scotland to find that out for himself? He really didn't want Scotland to focus on Australia for any amount of time, as Scotland was one of his favorite people. Not Wales, not Ireland, definitely not England; it was Scotland who had been kind to him and always shown concern for him. He did not want to share.

"He's... upstairs in his room." Canada admitted unwillingly, beginning to lead the way towards the stairs. Scotland followed, raising an eyebrow but not questioning Canada on the mood change. They went up the stairs silently, single file, and then they walked almost side by side down the hallway. Canada didn't even bother to knock on the door at the end of the hall, simply opening it and walking in.

"Australia, someone's here to see you." There was a loud thud, then a childish version of a curse. Australia had dropped a book from where he had been sitting on the edge of his bed and surely only been pretending to read it. He scrambled to pick it up, seizing the book in both hands before catching sight of the large redhead behind Canada. The child gaped openly. "Who are you?"

Chuckling before he answered, Scotland said, "I'm Scotland, England's big brother. And you must be the wee rascal he took in, in his great charity." Australia just looked confused, staring at Scotland more. Canada sighed. "He's joking, Australia. It's just a joke..."

"Oh..." Australia still didn't look like he understood, but he sure pretended he did. He attempted to sound not completely brainless. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Scotland laughed, clapping the lad on the back. "No need to be so formal, we're all family here." Canada felt the slightest bit bitter. He wasn't supposed to clap Australia on the back; that was what he did with Canada. Because Canada was always the younger brother Scotland actually liked. Australia looked up at Scotland with his wide eyes.

"We're brothers? Really?" Hadn't that occurred to Australia already? That was why they were all here, in this house! Because they were considered family that England needed to raise properly. Because it was only England's family that he tried to control instead of manipulate or battle.

Scotland ruffled Australia's hair, as a grin grew on the child's face. "Yes, really. Canada, Ireland, you, me, Wales, England and even America: we're all brothers and a sister, no matter how England calls you." Australia seemed rather enamored with this idea, and Canada could figure out why. England had rather expressly told himself and America (and presumably Australia) that he was their caretaker, and they were not to refer to him as 'big brother.' But here was Scotland, offering Australia a whole family, and it was no wonder the child was so excited.

It actually made Canada's heart soften, just the slightest bit, towards Australia, when he thought of how alone he must have been when he first came into being. Canada had America, even if they didn't get along so well now. But Australia was his own continent; no one had been there for him until England came along.

"If we're family..." Australia said, rather tentatively, swinging the book a little in his hands. Scotland looked at him expectantly, motioning for him to continue. Biting his lip a little, Australia said quietly, "If we're family, why don't we all live together?"

There was a moment of silence, before Scotland sighed. He sat down on the bed, patting next to him, indicating for Australia to sit. Canada felt a moment of envy. He should be the one sitting next to Scotland, not Australia! Scotland put his hand on Australia's further shoulder before speaking. "Well, you see, just because we're family doesn't mean we always get along. For a very, very long time, England, Ireland, Wales and myself battled each other constantly. Then England conquered Wales and later Ireland. We, he and I, joined in a union, so that the three of us, Wales, he, and I, became one country."

Australia was listening with an almost uncomprehending look on his face. "But if you're in a union, doesn't that mean you like each other?" Scotland shook his head, but then thoughtfully tilted it. "It is true that we like each other more than we used to; England and I don't really have any big fights anymore. But, Australia, sometimes the history between people runs too deep for it to just be forgotten. We will always be brothers, but I don't think we'll ever be close."

Staring down at his shoes, Australia seemed to be digesting the information. Canada leaned against the doorway, thinking on how true those words were. He and America were brothers, practically twins, in fact, but they were not even on speaking terms, if they had been allowed to speak to each other in the first place, anyway. Canada couldn't say he was close to anyone in this family besides Scotland, and that was stretching it a little bit.

Scotland, who had clearly been letting Australia have his quiet moment to try and understand, squeezed the young colony's shoulder. "But it'll be alright," he consoled him, looking at him with knowing eyes, "You'll meet friends along your way, people that you can drink with and fight alongside and just have a good time."

"One of my friends has been France," Scotland elaborated, looking off into the past to remember the face of the one who had been Canada's Papa, "and was he ever a weasel. Always on my side against England, he'd do anything to irritate the runt."

Australia promptly stood, face slightly pale and eyes alight with childish seriousness. "You can't call England a runt. He doesn't like it." And for a moment, Canada felt a connection; he always had that feeling of trying to keep from insulting or making fun of England, even when he wasn't around. But then Scotland laughed, standing up as well.

"You don't need to worry about him hearing you, lad. He's in his workroom right now, and almost nothing can interrupt him from his God-given duty." Again with the sarcasm, and Canada was sure Australia didn't catch it. But the child just looked at Scotland with what appeared to be some form of fear in his eyes, completely unmasked and easy to see. "What if he does hear me?"

This made Scotland stop, as though he were trying to read all the meanings in Australia's face. He put a hand on Australia's head, smoothing the hair down (for the child had mildly unruly hair) and saying, "You can't let people walk all over you, even if you are a child. If someone's a bastard, you don't need to say it to their face, but you don't have to keep it inside you either."

Scotland also looked over at Canada, as if to tell him this applied to him too. Canada just looked away. He was frequently uncomfortable with Scotland's advice, as it often involved doing things that could get him in trouble, such as standing up to England. He always asserted that England was just a bully, and he would stand down if he was presented with opposition. What Canada was sure Scotland didn't realise was that Canada had no real army to back him up, unlike Scotland must have had when he was younger.

"England scares me sometimes though," Australia confided in Scotland, looking up at him almost tearfully. And the older country pulled Australia in for a hug, and Canada knew Australia needed it, he knew he should not be jealous, but he was. It felt to him as though there was only so much a love to go around, and he was afraid that his share would be eaten up by Australia.

"It's scary to be a nation, but you can do it. Things won't always be this way, so hold your head high and just remember that no matter what England does, you are the proud nation of Australia and nothing will ever change that." Scotland's advice seemed to stop the tears at their root, and Australia just nuzzled closer against the Scot. Whether or not he'd really heard the words, or was just responding to the hug, Canada didn't know.

There was silence for a moment, during which Canada felt a little guilty, though he couldn't put his finger on why. Then Scotland released Australia, and smiled down at him. "Now, how about we go outside and I show you my bagpipes?"

"You brought your bagpipes?" Canada said, words laced with delight. There may have been a piano in England's home, but it was rarely played, so music was quite the treat. Australia just looked blankly at Scotland, then Canada. "What are bagpipes? Is it like England's pipe, except with a bag on it?"

Scotland had a twinkle in his eye as he replied, "No, no, not quite. I think you're in for a real surprise, you wee rascal."

* * *

As they stood out in the yard, Australia stared in wonder at the contraption that Scotland was holding. He had never seen anything like it, a bag with a bunch of pipes sticking out of it! He could only wonder what it would sound like, for clearly it made some sort of noise.

"Oh, play it, play it!" he squeaked excitedly, jumping up and down. Canada, that ever-reserved bore, was watching too, but _he_ wasn't jumping up and down, because he didn't care as much as Australia did. Scotland grinned at Australia, then put his lips to one of the pipe things.

The sounds that were emitted were like nothing Australia had ever heard. It was sort of a sharp sound, but at the same time melodic and delightfully loud. He began to canter around in a circle, hopping and skipping in time to the music. It must have delighted Scotland, for he began to play an even more lively tune, causing the little dance to become even more enthusiastic.

Canada didn't join in, but he was _smiling_, something Australia had not seen in a long time. It made him start to act a little silly in his dancing, making jerky movements with his arms, and even pulling a comical face every so often, staring straight into Canada's eyes. _That_ caused the older colony to burst out laughing, and Scotland seemed to be having a little more difficulty playing as the corners of his lips kept curling upwards.

Australia was purely delighted, not only with having an audience for his little dance, but in getting to dance, in having music, in all of it. When had he last been able to play like this? He felt so alive, like every fibre of his being thrummed with energy. Children couldn't get this feeling from dusty old books!

However, just as he was getting to the height of his excitement, the door from the kitchen to the garden slammed open, and there stood England, face slightly red and pulled into an annoyed display. Scotland abruptly stopped playing, Canada suddenly turned calm faced, and Australia promptly stood perfectly straight and still.

"What the hell is all this racket? Why did you bring that thing here, you bastard?" England thundered at Scotland, glaring at him something fierce. While both Australia and Canada had paled, Scotland did not seem bothered at all. "I know how much you love the sound of my bagpipes, so I couldn't resist serenading you."

England's teeth ground audibly. "Get out of my garden and go home! I'm _trying_ to work here, for all our sakes!"

"Ah, you're a right old _martyr_, England." Scotland was grinning now, even as he packed away his bagpipes. Australia was disappointed he would not hear the instrument again, but he had to admit he would rather not see England get any angrier. Said Brit was turning positively purple, and it really was strange, seeing him losing a battle of words in such a way. He tended to dominate in this arena, so Australia was beginning to feel as though perhaps, maybe, England was not an infallible being.

"Shut your gob! Just get the hell out of here and stop corrupting my colonies!" England's voice had a touch of shrillness to it, a sound Australia was sure he had never heard coming from England. It was an almost desperate, embarassed sound, as though he knew he couldn't win this particular battle.

"Why don't you two go on in to your rooms, while England and I have a mature discussion on the state of things." Scotland gently pushed Australia and Canada towards the door, and they willingly slipped past England, escaping to the safety of their rooms. Canada didn't even glance at Australia on the way in and up, and Australia was sure he didn't feel hurt by that. Nope, not in the slightest bit did he get an ache in his heart.

As he got in his room, he immediately pressed up against the window, to watch England yelling at Scotland and the other just talking normally, at least as far as Australia could tell. It made him giggle, to think England was throwing such a fuss because of his big brother. _Their_ big brother, now that he thought about it.

Australia lay back in his bed, beaming. He had a family, he had brothers and a sister, no matter what England said. And he would remember Scotland's advice always... whatever it had been.

/AN/ I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Anyway, I feel that I have to explain why this took so long. Basically, I've been working almost full-time, and I sleep in really late (medication makes me go zzzzz), so I don't write as much as I used to. And what I had a problem with, in this chapter, was mixing up Australia (full-grown) and Scotland, since I hadn't really taken the time to develope a personality for him. So I had to stop and do that, which, while it wasn't a pain or anything, took a little time.

On the upside: I graduated just this evening! Aren't you proud? Look out world, here I come! *sparkly eyes*


	11. Chapter 11

Know what? Barnes and Noble is amazing. I couldn't believe my eyes when I first walked in; there were so many up to date books in one place, all with beautiful unscuffed covers and perfect pages. I hardly knew where to begin looking... until I saw the bargain racks, of course. Did I ever mention how much I love a good deal?

Anywho, enjoy this chapter! And wasn't this a really fast update (for me)?

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Canada knew something was up when England had begun to go through his clothes, apparently searching for his best. Of course, to be honest, England had plenty of clothes, and he did like to dress 'like a gentleman', so this was a lengthy undertaking, one that Canada would have been certain only a couple of days ago England would not have started due his lack of time.

But what could be worthy of his best? It certainly couldn't be that a colony was gaining independence or equal recognition or anything of the like. Canada would have heard about something like that, he was sure. England would probably be grumbling, because there was no way at this stage he would do that completely of his own free will.

Try as he might, Canada couldn't think of any important anniversaries; Scotland and England's union was in 1707, not 1700. And, to be honest, he could not recall much further back than that in England's history. Was there some battle he was commemorating, or an ally he was honoring?

The only way to know, to find out for sure, would be to ask England. But one thing Canada had discovered after his time living here was that perhaps it was better to unnoticed, moving about outside of England's consciousness. So, Canada would just have to wait and find out as things unfolded. Hopefully it wouldn't involve him, he did so hate being put on the spot.

Canada stood up from the couch he had been ruminating on, hearing the clang of pots in the kitchen. He gave a small smile, mostly due to familiarity with the subject: it was Australia, cavorting in his newfound freedom, since England was so occupied he did not seem to notice much else. Canada figured he had best check on the lad before he got into a mess, and so he headed for source of the noise.

As he opened the door, he was greeted with the sight of Australia doing something he had not quite expected- cooking. Or at least, that was what he must be doing, with the apples bobbing placidly in a pot, being slowly warmed up by the heat of a flame. Canada came in slowly, unnoticed by the child absorbed in his work. "Australia," the child jumped, looking over in alarm, "what are you doing?"

Canada expected him to try and hide his doings or run away, with the shock he had reacted with, but no, Australia beamed at him, saying, "Oh good, it's just you. I'm making apple sauce!"

An eyebrow raise from the older colony. "You are?"

Australia nodded, pushing the apples around with a large spoon. "Yes. Once these apples get soft, I'm going to mash them up! And then we'll have apple sauce!" A sigh escaped from Canada. Why on earth did Australia think he knew how to cook? No one had taught him, that was for sure.

"You know," Canada said, easing the spoon out of Australia's hands, "You're not supposed to play with things in the kitchen. You could get in trouble." Eyes widening in fear, Australia gripped the front of Canada's shirt, begging piteously, "Don't tell England, I didn't know, it's not my fault! Don't tell him, please!"

"Alright, alright, I'm not going to tell him," Canada assured him, picking his hands off of his shirt gingerly. Australia's fingers wrapped around Canada's for a moment, as he looked up at him with apprehension in his face. Feeling a weird flipping motion in his chest, Canada detached from Australia, murmuring. "I promise. I won't tell."

Finally, Australia relaxed, face suddenly switching to a rather whiney, sour expression. "Does this mean we won't have apple sauce? I _wanted_ apple sauce."

What a little whiner. Canada wouldn't really admit it, but he was happy for the change from fear, even if it was to a rather bratty look. "We can still make apple sauce," he found himself saying, seizing the large pot by both of its handles and taking it over to the work table. Australia grinned, following him excitedly. "Can I mash the apples, cause that sounds like fun!"

"I guess so, but making apple sauce takes a little while; and, you can't just boil the apples and be done with it. Here, I'll show you how." This was where he seemed to shine, or at least mildly succeed, Canada reflected, as he peeled, cored and cut up the apples. He was certainly the best cook in the house; neither England nor Australia could compare, one being cursed or something and the other untrained. It was probably why he prepared so many of the meals.

France had taught him most of what he knew. He'd picked up more from England, so, admittedly, his food did taste rather similar to England's, but he still liked to think he had his own flair in the kitchen. Australia seemed like he might take after England, chopping rather crookedly and leaving bits of seeds still inside the apples when he cored them. Canada could only sigh and try and show him again.

When had he become so patient? Was it the years of living within another man's rules, waiting to eat when told, to sleep when told, to study when told? A small knot seemed to tighten in his chest. One day, he would choose when he did what he wanted to. But not America's way, _any_ way but that. He was not a selfish brat.

"So do I mash them now, or do we cook them?" Australia was looking up at him expectantly, also surveying the pile of chopped apples from the corner of his eye. Canada started scooping them up and putting them in the pot, nodding and instructing Australia, "Yes, we cook them; go get some water in a bucket."

As the shorter colony went off, Canada began to wonder exactly why he was doing this. It wasn't as though he _hated_ Australia or anything, but the child was a bit of a brat. Did he secretly hope that suddenly he would change, and become an adoring younger brother, one Canada had never had? Or was he just desperate enough for something to do that he would put up with anyone? Canada wished he knew himself better, so that he would know the answer.

In any case, he had to admit that Australia had behaved fairly well so far. Yes, he'd been whiney, but that was no crime. And look, he'd even been trying to help around the house by cooking. That was surely a good sign. Maybe the visit from Scotland had done him some good.

"I have it!" Sloshing noises greeted Canada's ears, and he turned around to see Australia heaving a half-full bucket along with both hands. Canada gestured towards the pot. "Well, we need it in here, to boil to the apples to make them soft."

"Alright!" Australia handed the bucket to Canada, and Canada poured it in, not missing how proud and pleased Australia's face was. He probably thought this was some huge deal, like baking a pie or souffle. Rolling his eyes to himself, Canada smiled and thought about how naive the little nation really was. He was certain he himself had never been that way, not really.

Canada put the pot to cook once again, and then leaned against the kitchen table, cooking spoon in hand. Australia copied him, saying, "So, when will the apples be soft enough?"

"Oh, it will take some time. We'll need to keep stirring it, every so often. I'll do that, you're too short," Canada replied, refusing to admit to himself that he was concerned Australia might burn himself by accident. No, he wasn't concerned at all; he just wanted the job done properly, so they wouldn't have to spend too long doing this.

"Okay." There were several beats of silence, not altogether uncomfortable, before Australia broke it. "Why are you such an arse all the time, but not this time?"

To say Canada was stunned was like saying the sun was bright; it didn't quite capture the overwhelming feeling. He stared at Australia for a moment, before finally managing, "What do you mean I'm an a-arse?" He stumbled over the last word, not usually one to utter curse words.

Australia shrugged, not seeming to catch on to Canada's incredulity. "You're just mean, all the time."

"I am not!" Canada sputtered, feeling a flare of anger. Him, mean? He was the exact opposite of mean! He had always been nice to Australia! If not nice, at _least_ civil! Where did the little brat get off calling him an arse _and_ mean? Australia, however, seemed to have a flare of emotion as well. "Yes you are! You're always tattling, and tricking me, and acting like you're more important, and making faces at me!"

This last accusation was the most astounding, as Canada could distinctly recall it had been Australia who had, up til recently, been glaring at him whenever England wasn't looking. And he had just _not_ tattled on Australia, only a few minutes ago! Canada didn't even know where to begin with his protests at the accusations.

"That's not true! I don't tattle on you; I don't trick you; and I _never_ made faces at you! How the heck did you come up with all this?" It was hard to vocalise the anger he was feeling, but it was obviously showing on his face, because Australia flinched back, eyes darting to the large spoon in his hand.

"Y-yes you do! You do, you just want England to love only you!" Whether the tears starting to form in Australia's eyes were sad tears or angry tears, Canada couldn't say; but what he said was rather surprising. Did England... _love_ him? Did he feel love for anyone but himself? Did Canada care whether or not England loved him? Were he and Australia just like little baby birds, each trying to peep louder than the other for the mother's attention?

"I don't..." Canada was still pondering the question even as he answered it. Did he want to keep all the love in this house, what little there was, to himself? Was _he_ one of the reasons Australia and he could not get along? He was pulled out of his thoughts with a sharp pain to his left shin and a cry of, "Yes you do, you bloody liar!"

Anger coursed through his veins in a matter of seconds. "You brat! Get over here!" His hands grappled with Australia's fleeing form, getting any handhold they could, and bringing Australia stumbling backwards.

"No! Get offa me!" Australia screeched, wildly flailing in Canada's grip and making himself generally a nuisance to hold onto. Pretty soon, they both toppled over, with Canada landing on top. "You little stinker! I've been being _nice_ to you all this time and you have the gall to call me names and kick in the shin! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"_You're not nice_!" came the howl in response, as Australia tried to claw his way free. Canada, however, pinned his arms. "No, I'm talking to you right now! Where do you come off being such a brat to me? I've never hurt you, I've never done anything to you!"

"Yes you have! _Yes you have_! You hate me!" Australia shrieked, tears running down his face freely and face flush red with anger. He still pushed futilely back against Canada, as though his strength were a match for someone of Canada's size. Canada tried to shake off the dumbfounded feeling that threatened to take over his mind. How could Australia think that? Feeling kind've hurt, Canada replied firmly, "_No_, I don't. I never have, I swear!"

Dislike, yes. He currently disliked Australia for the most part. But for Australia to think that he hated him...? It made him feel like a dirty, bad person. He didn't like feeling any way but benevolent. There was no noise beyond Australia's noisy, sniffling breathing, as he stared back up at Canada. Said colony was trying to think of what to say now that Australia wasn't shrieking.

"Look... What makes you think I hate you?" He had to get to the bottom of this, and show Australia where he was wrong. The child's lower lip trembled, and he said, in a rather whiney little voice, "You made me stay behind to get in trouble when you took the horse, and you didn't even go to get what you said! You just got drunk! And you were making faces at me when Scotland was here, cause you were mad at me!"

"I _did_ go to get the biscuits and jam, and I only left you so the horse could go faster! And what on earth do you mean _drunk_? I _fainted_, Australia, and fell off of Cora!" Canada couldn't believe Australia still remembered that debacle. Or that it mattered so much to him still. Though, his explanation of events did explain why he was so grumpy with him afterwards...

Australia hiccuped, face still red and blotchy. He seemed to be considering what Canada had said, and from the look on his face, he was having a hard time accepting that Canada wasn't out to get him after all. "But what about how you were looking at me all funny?"

Canada felt a guilty flip-flop in his stomach. He _had_ been jealous of Australia, at any bit of attention the lad got from Scotland. But he couldn't admit that, not now. "I was just... Well, I wasn't really _glaring_ or anything, I was just... Thinking. I was thinking about you, and how well you getting along with Scotland."

Which, it was true, really, it just wasn't the whole truth. Much to Canada's dismay, Australia's lower lip began trembling harder. "I want Scotland to be here!" He began to wail, causing Canada to panic, releasing Australia's arms and clambering off of him.

"No, no, don't cry!" It was a miracle England hadn't shown up when Australia was screaming; this was sure to be the last straw. But Australia would not be quiet, as he cried piteously for the big brother he had only really seen for one day. What was he supposed to do? Canada had never had to deal with this sort of thing!

Well, that wasn't entirely true... America had been the type in whom tears were easily invoked as a child, and they had been near the same age then. Not that he'd ever been the best at comforting him, but he liked to think his presence had done _something_, at the very least.

Canada didn't know what to do, or even entirely why Australia was crying; all he knew was that it would be a miracle if England did not hear it and come storming down here. "Sh, sh! Be quiet!" Hands muffling the noise, Canada pleaded with Australia to shush.

Australia looked back at him, eyes filled with an amount of anguish a child should not have, especially not one of his tender years. Canada found he couldn't look away. "Now, come on, shush, be good. We can't make England mad!"

Muffled noises still made it past Canada's hands, but it seemed as though Australia were trying to stop. Feeling relieved, Canada released him, brushing his hair down to make sure he kept calm. "Alright, that's right, stop crying," he coaxed, as Australia's crying morphed into hiccupping.

In a moment, he was reasonably calm, and it just the two of them sitting in a silence occasionally broken by a hiccup. Canada took a deep breath, suddenly feeling very grateful for silence. He wondered, vaguely, why England had not come down, with all that noise, but he did seem to recall something about how hyperfocused the Brit could get when he got going on something. That, or he had slipped out of the house to get new clothes and they hadn't even noticed. Which was definitely far more likely.

"Is the applesauce done yet?" Australia asked quietly, as though he were afraid that too much noise would ruin the peace. Canada stood, picking up the big spoon from where he'd dropped it and sticking it in the pot to stir around the pieces of apple.

"No, nowhere near," he said, still reeling from how close they had come to getting in some real trouble. Australia bumped up against his elbow, which surprised Canada; Australia had not been one for close contact, at least not with him. But here he was, cheek practically touching Canada's arm and torso up against his elbow. Something had changed here, and Canada could feel it himself as well.

"It takes a while for the apples to get soft enough," he explained, looking over into the brown eyes of Australia to see that they were placid, far from the anger or sorrow he had seen in them while they were fighting. And the startling realisation reached him: he was happy to see Australia feeling better. He actually _liked_ having him around when he was like this.

And no more was Australia proclaiming that Canada hated him; he must be happy too. Canada smiled down on Australia's brunette little head, giving the apples another good stir.

Australia wasn't some brat. He was his little brother.

/AN/ What's this, happiness in an angst fic? It can't be! But yes, yes it is! I hope you enjoyed it. As for England's searching for clothes, it's for his union with Ireland. That's right, now the redheaded beaut will be officially part of the UK! Aren't you excited?

And for those of you curious about New Zealand in this fic... Let me tell he will show up, just not for some time.


	12. Chapter 12

I've suddenly grown attached to Scotland. Mostly because I just watched Braveheart, which is wicked awesome. It has some nudity though, and lots of gore, if you don't like that sort of thing. The Scots are funny, but not in a 'look at that silly peasant' kind of way. And there's this mildly crazy Irish guy in the movie too, and he's awesome. The whole film is kind of timeless, and the fact that it was made in 1995 has no bearing on the style of dress or anything like that. I recommend the film, unless you're too young or squeamish to watch R-rated films. Cause, like I said, lots of gore.

Also, I was thinking of making another story about the Philippines and America in WWII. Whaddya think? Bad idea? Good idea?

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Australia didn't like it when things made England angry. Whether it be a stray rock he stubbed his toe on or a person that fueled his temper, Australia wanted it gone and gone forever. England was difficult enough to deal with when he was in a good mood, much less a bad one.

So, when he saw who England had brought home, he felt his stomach turn, and he couldn't take his eyes off of her, wishing her to go home and stay there. England, however, seemed to be in a strangely good mood. "Boys, you might recall Ireland? Yes, well, she will be staying with us for a time, as she is now part of the Union of Britain and Ireland."

The look on Canada's face seemed to be a startled one, as his eyes widened and he gaped just a little. "But... But when did this happen?"

Ireland looked away, a pinched and bitter look on her face. England smiled back at Canada, hanging up his jacket. "When I was away, of course. You aren't full-fledged countries, so you have no right to be there. Besides, Australia's so young, I'd expect him to make a racket."

Australia felt his face heat up. He wasn't a baby! He wouldn't make a racket at an important ceremony, he was sure of it! "I wouldn't make noise..." he said, his words starting out loud and defiant but quickly trailing off to quiet murmures. England stared at him for a moment, and Australia felt his chest constrict, forcing the air out and not letting any back in. But then England shook his head, and turned to Canada. "I want dinner ready on time tonight, and a room prepared for Ireland. Understand?"

"Understood sir." Canada turned to go, then seemed to rethink things and reach back for Australia's hand. "You can come and help me out," he murmured, and Australia was glad to get a chance to go. His fingers gripped Canada's and he was led off up the stairs, away from England and the woman who made him angry.

As they arrived in the room across the hall from his, Australia looked up at Canada in curiousity. "Why is she here? I thought England _hated_ her."

A pensive sigh from Canada, as he seemed to be thinking about the same thing himself. Then he answered, "I don't know. Maybe he thinks it will solidify his hold on her. Maybe she's the one who thought it was a good idea, and England saw it as her finally condoning his rule in her country. Anyway, England's always after more land, and if he thought this would truly secure it, then I guess he'd put up with anything for it."

Australia blinked, a bit blankly. He thought England owned Ireland all along... what difference did this union thing make? But he didn't want to bother Canada with a bunch of questions, not when they had linens to change and a room to dust. "I'll go get new bedding, you strip down the bed, alright?"

"Yes Canada!" Australia chirped back, scrambling to obey. No longer did any of Canada's commands seem like a pale imitation of England's stern rule; now, it just seemed more like a request, something that needed to be done. Yes, he had to admit, sometimes Canada was a little bossier than he'd like, but then again, he wasn't mean. And that was really a character trait Australia valued.

Carrying the bundle of linens from the bed (which definitely hadn't been used in some time), Australia waddled towards the door, and nearly collided with Canada, who was entering. "Where do you want me to put these?"

"Just put them in the laundry basket downstairs, you know, the big light brown one." Australia followed Canada's instructions, heading rather precariously down the stairs, appearing as a wad of linens with legs. Though the thought that he couldn't see and thus could cause himself injury did cross his mind, he dismissed it breezily and went on his merry way, making it to the laundry basket without incident.

He raced back up the stairs, nearly tripping twice. Which was sort of funny, to think that he'd have more near-accidents when he could see than when he couldn't, Australia surmised. He entered the room to find Canada tucking in corners of a sheet, and as such, he threw himself on the bed, giggling up at Canada.

Said nation smiled, though he looked like he was trying not to. "Come on Australia, we can't tarry. It's important that we get done on time and start dinner."

It was a disappointing statement, but not really unexpected. Australia pouted as he slipped the pillow into a new case, and Canada leant over the bed tucking in the quilt. "This quilt was made by England, you know. He's actually pretty handy with a needle and thread, particularly embroidery."

Why should Australia care about that? It didn't sound interesting at all. For such a young-looking person, Canada could be exceptionally boring, Australia sulked, still obediently settling the pillow neatly on the bed. The maple-loving nation carried on, smiling a little bit and not even noticing that Australia wasn't interested. "One time, though, he accidentally embroidered his shirt to one of his works. He was so angry..."

The smile disappeared from Canada's face, as he seemed to remember something. "I wasn't actually there, though. America told me about it. I wasn't with England then..."

Could a story be anymore boring? Australia waited impatiently for Canada to finish tucking everything in. But even when the older colony finished, he just stood there, staring at the quilt. A small harrumph from Australia, however, broke the trance, and he looked over at him with a sigh. "Well then, we'd better make dinner. Come on."

Canada was so weird sometimes, just staring off into space for no reason. It made Australia wonder, vaguely, if a nation got so many memories as they got older that they had to keep reviewing them in their head, and they couldn't get as much thinking done. Though, Canada wasn't stupid; but Australia had to admit he thought himself far more intelligent, not that he would ever tell Canada.

As they headed down the stairs, Canada seemed to be watching and listening for something, with a rather tense look on his face. But there was no noise; nary a sound to disturb Canada's senses. When they arrived at the landing, Australia spotted Ireland seating on the couch, staring straight ahead stubbornly.

At least she wasn't screaming, he reasoned, not daring to bother her as he passed. Her eyes were smoldering, unseeing of anything but her own anger. It was like Australia and Canada weren't even there. Australia was glad she didn't notice them, even if she wasn't raging or anything.

As they arrived in the kitchen, Canada smiled over at Australia. "And today, you will learn how to make a good soup! This one is one of England's own recipes, so I doubt Ireland will enjoy supper." At that, he looked apologetic, even though Ireland wasn't there. Canada was so strange.

Australia chopped carrots while Canada cooked the meat, boiling the flavor out of it. A strange melancholy seemed to settled over the house, and Australia was convinced it came from the red-eyed lady in the living room.

* * *

Ireland's petticoats swished as she came to sit at her seat. Ordinarily, Canada might've pulled out her chair for her, but while England was in a good mood, he was never favorable towards Ireland. Canada wished he had gotten to know Ireland more early on, however, as the case was, he simply had not and as such didn't know what was going on in her head as she crossed herself and blessed her food.

Maybe she was mad about the way things had turned out, but she was not mad to be with him and Australia. Maybe she would like them, and take care of them, like a mother. Or, maybe she would just be angry all the time and drink and curse and generally be a bad influence. How was Canada supposed to know these sorts of things?

Australia slurped noisily, having apparently forgotten proper etiquette for soup. England thwacked him on the head with a spoon, making him cry out and cover his head with his hand. Canada wished he was sitting next to the lad so he could keep him in check, and console him when things like that happened. He didn't really deserve to be alone and punished all the time. He was trying to follow England's rules, Canada could see it, but there were so many to remember...

"Ireland, you will have new duties now that you are here," England announced, rather delicately wiping at his mouth with his napkin. Ireland didn't reply, only giving him a hateful look before returning to her food. England gave a slight chuckle, and Canada looked between the two countries anxiously. Were they going to fight, here and now?

They couldn't fight, they just _couldn't_. He and Australia would surely be caught in the crossfire, things would be broken, from bones to dishware, and he just couldn't handle violence right now. But no, England settled his napkin back on his lap, giving a small smile to Ireland. "Don't be bitter, my dear, it doesn't suit you."

This time she didn't even look at him, instead viciously stabbing a piece of meat with her fork (she should have used a _spoon_) from her soup. England continued on, saying "I expect you to take care of the laundry, cooking and cleaning, with help from Canada. If that isn't too much for you, of course."

The last part was very much sarcastic, a tone England seemed to have taken a liking to these last few decades. Ireland knew, she _must_ have known, after all these years, to recognise it and not let it get to her. But of course, Canada should have remembered the Gaelic country also had a temper, and a sharp tongue to boot.

"Oh, I thought I would be waited on hand and foot while tyrannising over smaller countries and generally making an ass of myself- oh wait. That's _your_ job, isn't it?" The look on her face said, just try and beat me. England's face read clearly as anger, beginning to bubble and boil inside him. Canada hoped his read as, please stop this and just eat the meal I worked so hard to make.

"Insolent wench!" England stood, rather violently, making the china rattle as he slammed his hands down on the table. Ireland gave a mirthless smirk, saying, "What, are you going to hit me? You're _such_ a _man_."

Canada was watching with bated breath as the two locked eyes in a heated glare, Ireland daring him to attack her and England threatening such. The tension in the room had easily raised tenfold, and Canada swore he could hear his own heart beating in his ears. They wouldn't just start going at each other like feral dogs, would they? They couldn't! They just couldn't!

The silence was broken, not with a shout from England, as it had looked like it was going to be, but with a full-body sob from Australia, as he threw his face down on the table and started crying. Canada was startled, to say the least. He hadn't been looking at Australia, so he hadn't seen any emotions build up in the younger boy's face.

"What are you bloody blubbering about?" England snapped, attention diverted to Australia for the time being. Australia couldn't get coherent words out, however, though he seemed to be trying. Canada felt a his stomach twist. He had to do something to save Australia, to get him out of here before England took out his rage at Ireland on him. But how the hell was he supposed to do that?

"I-I'll take care of him." Canada was over by Australia's side within seconds, trying to pull him out of his seat and into the other room. England glared down at him, but not without a hint of confusion, like a streak of peppermint in a jelly. "Who said you could do that? Leave him here and let him learn some damn manners!"

He had to think of something, something quick to deflect England's attention. Australia quiver in his arms, still shaking with the crying. Ireland said nothing, though she did glare at England's blind spot. Canada knew it was time to choose his side. "S-so you can deal with her! She's giving you the finger, sir!"

England's attention was on Ireland in record time, glaring with the heat of a slightly wounded pride. "You! You bloody waif! How dare you!" Ireland first looked startled, for she definitely had not been giving him the finger, but then she just got mad back. "You didn't even see me, you idiot!"

Canada almost physically carried Australia out of the room, shuffling quickly to avoid being noticed. Whatever they were saying, Canada didn't know, but he did wince when he thought of how he probably just made an enemy in this house. Ireland could hold a grudge as well as anybody, he was sure.

"Are you okay?" Canada's question went unanswered, verbally, as Australia just pressed himself against him and latched on tightly. Looping his arms around the smaller boy, Canada kissed the side of his head, remembering that to be a comforting gesture, and whispered, "It's okay, you're safe now."

A swell of pride at his own bravery filled his chest, and Canada could say that, for the first time in a long time, he felt amazing. He had saved someone else; someone else _needed_ him. And that was reason enough to endure living in this house, to risk his hide.

Ireland was probably going to kill him though.

/AN/I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I am very happy to have finished it! And see, it's not all angst either! Yay! Oh, and Davy Jones from Pirates of the Caribbean is Scottish! Not Welsh, as I was hoping might be the case. I still can't distiguish between the Gaelic accents all that well. Bummer, huh?

Oh! And apparently, the finger, or some variant, has been around since Ancient Roman times, and has spread to most European countries (and the US and Canada etc.). In Canada, they call it the Trudeau finger. Dunno why though.


	13. Chapter 13

You know what? I'm tempted to write a story about, like, Macau or Mongolia, but they're such obscure characters (though they are canon) I'm afraid no one would want to read it. Ah well, what can you do?

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Canada felt fortunate that Ireland seemed to be avoiding him, or at least avoiding speaking to him too much. While it was strange to do chores together and barely speak, he knew it was his fault; he was the one who chose this, ultimately. At the very least, whenever Australia hung around, he would usually chatter up a storm. Now was one of those times.

"And I saw a mouse in the pantry, but I took it outside and set it free!" Of course. Australia always seemed to find the critters in and around the house, when he was let outside. The child was an ungodly pale, at least to Canada. He knew it was the fashion to be pale, but there was something about Australia that demanded a sun-kissed exterior. Canada smiled at Australia, putting one of England's shirts on the clothesline.

"That's wonderful, Australia. Can you hand me another shirt, please?" Australia, obviously delighted that someone was listening to his adventures, was quick to comply. Ireland, on the other end of the line with her own basket of laundry, glanced down their way, as though she might have thought what they were saying was interesting, but she made no comment, and only continuing pinning Australia's breeches on the line.

"Hey, you know what? I wish we had babies." Australia's announcement was a bit startling to Canada, to say the least. His head turned slowly, to examine Australia's face. It was formed into a rather dreamy look, with a small smile and eyes clearly seeing what their home would be like with babies in it. Ireland snorted, replying, "Well, I can tell you, I'm sure as hell not having any babies."

"Oh, you don't have to; Canada can." The statement was much more startling than the first. Ireland broke out in snickers, nearly dropping the shift she had been hanging. Canada turned rather red, shaking his head emphatically. "Australia, I can't have babies! I'm a not a _woman_!"

"Yeah you can! You just have to try really hard!" Australia's eye's locked with Canada's, alight with excitement at the prospect. Canada dropped the breeches he held in his hands into the basket again, and, heaving a great sigh, put his hands on Australia's shoulders. "Australia... Babies have to be... _carried_ by a woman. Men can't have babies. They don't have anywhere to put them."

Australia looked deeper into Canada's eyes, as if trying to discern the truth from his purple orbs. Then he stuck his lower lip out. "But I wanted a baby, Canada. I _really_ did."

His eyes drifted over towards Ireland. She saw him, and replied, "_Still_ not doing it. I'm not bringing any children into this world, especially not some English whelp."

Australia pouted some more. Canada, however, blanched at the thought of babymaking and hurriedly got back to the laundry. He really was having enough of this baby conversation. "Okay, let's just focus on the laundry now, alright?"

Ireland gave another snort, but she seemed to have agreed, for she stopped talking about who she would or would not allow to procreate with her. Australia also dropped the subject, probably trying to figure out some other female to get to bear a baby for the sake of his whims.

Several moments passed in silence, blessed silence with no awkward questions or declarations. Canada wished most time would be filled this way, with something to do and nice people to be around, and most certainly no talking. He might have been considered strange, but he honestly enjoyed just being around someone he liked without talking. Maybe some other people would feel it awkward, however, he did not.

This good feeling was interrupted by Australia, as was fairly typical at that point. "Are you done yet? I'm _bored_!"

"Look at the basket, Australia. Does it look empty?" Canada wasn't mean about it, but he certainly couldn't say he was taking on his 'kind' voice. Australia peered at the woven structure, kicking when it didn't give him the answer he wanted. "Well, I want to go inside now!"

"Then go inside! I'm not keeping you here," Canada replied, not even looking back from the coat he was hanging. If Australia was going to behave all nasty like that, then there was no particular reason he wanted him out here! However, Australia suddenly turned apologetic, hugging him from behind. "I'm sorry! I want to stay with you, inside it's all lonely."

Canada continued putting up clothes, murmuring to Australia, "It's alright. I didn't mean to be sharp with you." Because he didn't. The last thing Australia needed from him was harsh words, since he got so many from England, and even a little from Ireland now. Just the last night she had told him off for singing, when apparently she had not been in the mood for it. She could be temperamental, when she wanted to be, Canada supposed.

Things with her had just not turned out the way Canada had hoped, however vague his hopes had been. She mostly kept to herself, and got into fights with England fairly frequently. On the few occasions she did talk to them, it tended to be rebukes and hotheaded snaps; far from a motherly figure, Canada surmised.

"Are you going to stand there all day thinking, or are you going to go back inside and help me make dinner?" Ireland's query broke Canada out of his thoughts, and he looked over at her sharply. "Um, yes, of course. I'm coming."

He picked up the empty laundry basket and followed her in, very closely followed by Australia. That child did not leave him alone very often, it was true...

* * *

As Ireland prepared bread (which was heavenly compared to their usual fare), and Canada helped her, Australia made sure never to be too far away from Canada. The last thing he wanted was to be separated for too long, and for Canada to forget that they were brothers now, that they mattered to each other.

As he pressed up against Canada's side, the older boy let out a sigh. "Australia," he said, dropping the dough with thwump, "I can't work with you so close. Please, back up a little bit."

But he wanted to be close to Canada. He wanted to always be close to the only person who really loved him in this whole house. He backed off a few millimeters, and he heard Ireland snort. "What are you, a barnacle?"

Australia didn't know what a barnacle was, and didn't get the opportunity to ask because Canada spoke up again. "Australia. I need space to work, alright? Stand at the end of the table. That's only about two feet away."

The distance was almost too much for Australia; but he did it. He stood further away, even though he was itching to be closer. Canada didn't appreciate how much effort he was putting into it, though, and didn't even look up from his work. Surely the older colony was mad at him now, and Australia felt a small franticness begin to build up in his chest. He couldn't make Canada dislike him, not now!

There had to be something he could do to put him in the older nation's good graces once again. But what could he do? He was a child, like it or not, and so there was only so much he could offer. He couldn't do Canada's chores for him; he couldn't give him presents.

A despair, simple and childish, began to settle over him as Canada kneaded the dough obliviously. He had no way of keeping him close! He would be forgotten, Canada wouldn't care anymore and he would be alone! Tears began to burn his eyes, slowly building up as he tried to hold them in, taking in breaths and trying not to let them out.

"I have good news, all." England's announcement caught Australia off guard, and he jumped. Apparently, the empire had walked in without his notice, fancy coat on and all. The green eyes did not even seem to sweep over Australia in the slightest, focused casually on Canada, who stared back like a small animal none too far away from a predator.

"What could be good that's coming out of your mouth?" Ireland said dryly, just continuing on with her breadmaking. England chose to ignore her, continuing on. "We are no longer at war. It has all been settled."

England looked around the room now, as if to gauge their reactions. Canada's mouth had dropped open, Ireland had looked wistful, and of course, Australia didn't see how this affected him. Maybe England would be nicer if he wasn't caught up in war, though, so he decided to put on a small smile. He was startled when Canada spoke.

"That's such good news! Are we on good terms with France now?" He seemed to have forgotten his usual apprehension, hands clasped together in front of him in delight and hope. England snorted, however, spitting out a "Hardly. The bastard still attacked us, so I don't see why I should try to be friendly."

Disappointment painted Canada's features. It was because... He liked France, right? Australia could remember that much, and felt proud for his understanding of the intricacies of the house relationships.

"Attacked you, you mean," Ireland muttered, giving the dough a particularly hard thump. Once again, England ignored her. He seemed to do a lot of that lately, and for that Australia was grateful. If England didn't react to Ireland, it meant way, way less anger in the house, and less anger in the house invariably meant lighter punishments for him.

"In any case, carry on. Dinner had better be ready on time." England exited the room, while Ireland snapped after him, "It's almost always on time, you bastard!"

Australia looked back towards Canada, and was surprised to find he looked distant, staring off into space like he seemed to do every so often. It made Australia feel a little darker inside. Why must this France be so important? He wasn't here, was he? Australia was the one who was here, and therefore should get all of Canada's attention.

He moved closer to Canada once again, and this seemed to pull Canada out of his thoughts. "Australia, I told you, I need space..."

But though Australia moved back, he knew he would never let Canada get too distant; who else did he have?

/AN/ Wah! This chick on FF is threatening me cause she didn't like my review of her (not so well written) story! She's all like, 'When someone insults my story, they insult me. And when someone insults me, I get back at them.' I'm just a little unnerved, but I'm hoping she's just some self-absorbed thirteen-year-old making idle threats.

And I didn't think I was being mean or anything! I didn't come out and say, "Your story sucks cause everyone's OOC, your OC is a Mary Sue, and there's no real plot." I was actually trying to help! Aiyah...

But yay, babies... I love babies. They are sooo cute.

Also, history time! In 1802, the French Revolutionary Wars officially ended. The UK was like, the last to negotiate peace, I believe.


	14. Chapter 14

I know last chapter was short, but this one should be longer, do not worry!

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

This was a surprisingly pertubed dishwashing session for Canada.

Though peace had been declared some time ago between the UK and France, Canada had yet to see France visit this house like he'd hoped might happen. The thought that France was just across the channel, and now on good terms with England, but would not visit, produced heavy feelings in Canada's heart. He was _so_ close to seeing his Papa, but circumstances, as always, conspired to keep them apart.

Or, as the unwanted thought kept suggesting, was it that France wasn't even trying to come see him? Surely, since it was peacetime, he could contrive some political or diplomatic reason to visit if he wanted to. Had it been too long since he had been ceded to England?

It wasn't fair. France had chosen to keep Louisiana, land that didn't even _have_ representation, not like him. He was better company than a nonexistant person any day, wasn't he? Why would France choose that way, if he really loved him?

Canada shook his head, focusing once again on the sudsy dishes before him. He was nearly done, and he _did not_ want to answer that question. No, not today, not ever. If France didn't love him, he had no reason to succeed, none at all.

Well. Maybe that wasn't true, he admitted to himself, as he felt Australia hovering behind him and tying his apron strings into complicated knots. Maybe, he didn't have to rely on one person who wasn't even there. He had someone else, even if that someone else could get a little whiney sometimes.

A warm feeling settled into Canada's stomach, and he set to doing the dishes with gusto. He looked over his shoulder a moment as his apron tightened a little bit from Australia's new knots. "Australia, am I going to be able to get this off when I'm done? I don't want to look like a housewife all the time, you know."

"Um... Uh-huh, I'm really good at undoing knots," Australia reassured him, and rather unsurprisingly there began to be sharp tugs at his apron strings. Canada could only sigh, half affectionately, at Australia's shenanigans. Even something like being trapped in his apron certainly wasn't going to change his mood, or his feelings about Australia. It was good to have him around, no matter how much trouble he got into.

Suddenly, a darker feeling seemed to settle on the room, as Australia huddled closer to Canada all of a sudden. Canada turned his head, looking towards the doorway. What he saw was England, not drunk, not pompously dressed, not even looking angry. So, at least it was 'normal' England.

"Canada," England said, "I have important news for you."

Canada froze for a moment. What kind of news could England have to tell him? Most of the news he had received over the past decades had been bad, from being ceded to America's Revolutionary War to moving in with England. Now, however, England's face was unreadable, though there was the slightest hint of disdain.

"Don't act like that, it's good news. You're going home." England's face was rather bored looking as he said this, looking over Canada's shocked features. The Canadian had no idea how to respond. He was going home, finally, after all this time of waiting? The thing he had wanted all this time was here, but... did he still want it?

While Canada may have been speechless, Australia was not. "No! He can't go home! Canada, you can't go home!" Australia's arms were immediately around Canada, body pushed up close, and Canada could just barely see, out of the corner of his eye, that Australia's face was fixed in a terrified, desperate expression.

"I...I... England, sir, I think maybe that I should stay here, just a little longer... Ireland can still use the help-" Canada's plea was cut off by England's stern "No. This is non-negotiable. Go pack your things now."

"No... no..." Australia whimpered, still clinging like a baby monkey. "Canada, you can't leave me!"

"That's enough of that, Australia! We do not whine or cling like that, it is not proper! Come here!" And England tried to pry Australia off of Canada, which only caused Australia to scream, fingers digging in like hooks. Canada was starting to feel the panic that was evident in Australia himself, his mind a flurry as he tried to figure out what to do.

He couldn't fight England, he just couldn't! England was the empire, he was the colony, it just wasn't what was supposed to be done! Why was England doing this anyway? He hadn't shown any improvement in behavior, if anything he was worse, by England's standards. It wasn't fair! Just as he and Australia had gotten close, this was happening!

"I can't leave, sir! He... he needs me, please...!" And now he was trying to hold on to Australia, reaching rather awkwardly back to get a grip on him. The child was still sobbing and shrieking, as England did his best to get him away from Canada.

Said empire was not pleased with this answer, rather than the complete obedience he was used to. "Canada, I absolutely cannot allow that! You are interfereing with my discipline and education of him, and I won't stand for it. You must leave immediately."

Canada was at a loss for words. How could it be that England thought he was interfereing? True, he had rescued Australia once, at the dinner table, but that was hardly grounds for being sent away! Suddenly, that cozy little cabin was sounding less like home and more like an exile. He couldn't let this be, but what could he do? England was stronger, England was bigger, and England was more willful. He couldn't stand against that.

Australia was torn away, right out of his hands. Canada didn't want to look back, didn't want to see Australia's face at that point, knowing it would only make him want to fight back, and that was something he couldn't do.

"Canada! Canada!" Australia was crying out, and Canada could hear the scuffle as England dragged him away, undoubtedly to put him in the closet or even the cellar, anywhere he would be trapped and out of the way. His gaze dropped towards the dishwater, eyes shutting as he tried to reconcile himself with the situation fate was putting him in.

What would Australia do without him? What would _he_ do without Australia? Admittedly, he had got on without him before, and he would probably do alright in his cabin, surrounded by the woods and animals, but could Australia survive being alone once again? Faced with England's strict discipline and Ireland's ignoring, would he go back to being a complete brat?

What if Canada never came back? Canada could feel tears start to well up in his eyes, and his hands clenched in his apron. He should be running after Australia, he should be letting him out of whatever darkness England was condemning him to. But he didn't dare to.

The bawling echoed from the living room, and still, Canada knew he could do nothing. England was the one in charge, not him, never him, he never had a say. His heart felt heavy as he dragged his feet across the floor, hating himself for the way he was following what he was told. His legs felt like lead, as his hand pushed against the door to the living room, bringing him that much closer to Australia, yet no closer to ending his panic.

As he entered the living room, he could see England yelling at the closed door of the closet. "Shut the bloody hell up! You have had more than enough bloody time to learn some bloody manners, instead of just wailing like a baby! You'll stay in there until you have figured out how to behave rationally!"

Rationally. As though the only person who had ever cared for you being forced to leave was something that was easy to take calmly. Canada hated that he kept walking, and headed up the stairs, the cries of Australia still echoing in his ears. There was nothing else he could do, however. Even if he fought England now, so that he could stay, he would invariably lose, because he was not prepared for battle, especially with a power like England.

Canada threw his things into a bag, feeling his eyes mist over with tears, and trying to wipe them away. The last thing he needed was a goodbye spanking, as unlikely as it was that England would care. He _cared_ about Australia now; the child had transformed from brat to familiar and sometimes adorable. Australia had needed him, of all people, and now there was going to be a void where the child had been.

Hefting his bag up, Canada headed down the stairs, trying to dismiss all thoughts at this point. He didn't want to reflect on the pain he was feeling, or the pain Australia was undoubtedly feeling, even though he could still hear him. England awaited him at the landing, and just as they turned towards the door, swearing met their ears.

"What the hell is going on? Is he locked in a _closet_?" Ireland had shown up, and looked fairly disbelieving. England looked at her in exasperation, saying, "Yes, he is in a closet. I am punishing him, something I am sure you are not unfamiliar with. Canada, it is time to go."

"You're bloody insane." Ireland announced, shaking her head and heading for the kitchen. Probably to get a drink, Canada numbly realised. England grabbed onto his arm, leading him towards the waiting carriage. Canada twisted back, to get one last look at the house that he had cursed for all these years. Who knew how long it would be until he saw it again...

* * *

Australia was starting to run out of panic, even as he threw himself at the door again, hoarse voice crying to be let out and for Canada to stay. Nothing, he knew from experience, could get that door to budge, just as nothing he could do seemed able to change England's mind.

Another sob broke free from him, as he slid down against the door. He _needed_ Canada; without Canada, he was alone, and that was the last thing he wanted! Being alone right now was like being trapped in a dark, whirling sea, where he was sure to drown alone and friendless.

Why did bad things happen to him? Was he bad? Did he deserve to lose the good things that were in his life? Australia felt a deep hurt in his heart, telling him it must be true, it must be the reason he was so alone and so spat upon. He gathered his knees up to his chest, and buried his face into them.

He hated the dark. It was bad, full of malice and bad intentions and diabolical schemes. He _knew_ there were creatures in this closet, he almost felt them touching him every so often. But England didn't care if he got eaten, or his head sliced open, or his heart torn right out of his chest- no, he didn't care if he _died_. Drool dripped out of Australia's mouth as he continued to cry. He wanted to be safe and away from the monsters. He wanted to be with Canada.

The darkness, however, continued to press down on him relentlessly, and he was left to cry himself into delirium.

* * *

Canada was gone.

It was a fact that Australia couldn't reconcile himself with at first, and he'd hid in his bedroom. Then England had come in, dragged him out from under the bed, slippered him, and told him to act like a proper human. It was then reality had really sunk in, and now Australia dully did whatever he was told, feeling more tired than he ever had before.

Lately, England had taken to having him practice his handwriting in his office, so that for a good portion of the day, he was never out of England's sight. Every so often, there would be an inspection of Australia's work, and if it wasn't good, a smack on the hand; if it was good, there was no smack on the hand. Australia found that the days went by quicker if he just thought about the adventures he would have when he, too, went back to his home, and got to go outside and see animals and just do whatever he wanted.

It just one such day, after England approved of Australia's repeated writings of England's full title, that Ireland came up into the office, steaming about something or other. England didn't even look up from what he was writing; Ireland got Australia's full attention, however.

"England, I am sick of this shit. You're a twisted bastard and I don't want to be around any of this! I'm leaving, I don't care what stupid treaty you forced me to sign!" She did have a bag with her, Australia noted. She was definitely serious. England rose from his seat, great eyebrows furrowed as if in thought.

"Oh, so what, I'm supposed to just let you go, after I've already put so much work into you? Is that what you thought would happen? Well, I can assure you, that my response will be anything but that." He pulled back a sleeve threateningly, clenching and unclenching his fist.

Australia felt his breath catch in his throat, freezing up at the atmosphere suddenly all around him. Ireland, however, did not seem afraid, snarling back at him, "Just you go and try it, you bastard!"

He wasn't going to watch, Australia told himself, covering his eyes as England loomed threateningly over Ireland, with all of his three inches more height. All hell broke loose with the sound of spittle launching and hitting someone, and Australia cowered in his tidy little corner, surrounded by parchment and ink and quills.

He didn't watch as growls and the sounds of flesh striking flesh filled the air. He didn't watch as curses, some desperate and some vicious, entered his ears. And he definitely didn't watch as Ireland cried for mercy.

No, in his black little world, Canada was there, and he held him tight and didn't let bad things come near him. He was safe, however much he knew he was not.

* * *

The news that they were at war with France once again, and that Ireland had had another failed rebellion, were tough tonics to swallow. Canada had hoped that, with the distance he was from England, he might be able to secretly arrange a meeting, but with France now an enemy of the empire, such an attempt would be treasonous.

How must Australia be feeling now? Canada wondered if he was afraid, hiding away in corners of the house so he wouldn't be seen and hurt. He knew he had been afraid when he had first come to live with England, and England usually forgot about him for long stretches of time, so it wasn't so much hiding as staying out of sight when it came to Canada.

But maybe Australia was angry instead, bottling it all up until he exploded and landed himself in severe trouble. Maybe he wore only a deeply affected face, constantly strained by his frustration at being left behind. Would he hold this against Canada? Would he refocus his fury on a target that was far away and therefore safe? Or would he act out and hurt Ireland, the only one without absolute power in the household, besides the child himself?

Canada sighed, arms wrapped tightly around his beloved pet, who had said nary a word other than 'Who?' since he had returned, which was actually very troubling, but not pressing at the moment. He wished he could be back in that horrible house, though at the same time, he had a guilty feeling that he was glad to be be out of it.

He shut his eyes, and stroked Kumajirou's head softly. Would he ever see Australia again? And would he be the same Australia?

/AN/ I got a new guy at my job who probably does drugs! Isn't that just super?

Oh, and I'm not dead yet, so methinks the angry FF writer was bluffing. Yay!

Okay, history stuff: first France and the UK were back at war once again, this time the Napoleonic Wars. Then Ireland had the Irish Rebellion of 1803. The reason the rebellion is mentioned first is because Australia doesn't really care about whether or not they are at war, and hasn't paid enough attention to know that they are.


	15. Chapter 15

Well, here's the next chapter. I hope you like it better than the last!

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Australia couldn't say things had been the same without Canada. They had, of course, finally quieted down, like a house quieted down after the death of the family dog, but to say things were without tension was to lie. Ireland was always ready to be in a verbal battle with England, if not a physical one, and Australia spent most of his time trying to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

He knew he looked different than before. He had a mirror in his room, for some reason, so he could see the dark circles under his eyes. Never remembering relying on Canada to sleep, he was unsure why it made such a big difference now. He couldn't say that a lot of his being was not spent recalling Canada and trying to replicate the feeling of him being around, though it was rather futile.

He hated feeling this way, even if he couldn't quite articulate _how_ he was feeling. Now, he was currently curled up under the couch, supposing that to be a safe place to finally close his eyes and rest. He didn't feel comfortable sleeping many other places, for some reason.

"Australia! Get in here right now!" England's voice made Australia moan, though rather quietly, as he very distinctly recalled the punishment for giving such a response. He had to sit with two blocks of wood in his mouth, which England had dubbed the 'no-chatter boxes.' They had tasted bad, and it had been very difficult to swallow.

Dragging himself to his feet, Australia headed for the kitchen, which was where England seemed to be. Which was rather strange, since he rarely worked in there or anything.

As he entered, Australia saw that England was standing there, holding an empty bottle and seeming rather ticked off. "What," he asked, taking a step towards Australia with a rather dark, thoughtful look on his face, "What, exactly, were you thinking?"

He tapped the empty bottle, and Australia wondered if he thought that he'd drunk it down, which he would never, never do. "I didn't do anything," he explained, trepidation increasing as England took another step closer, trying to stare him down.

"See, that's where you're lying," England said, fingers clenching around the neck of the bottle. "I know what you've done. You must think you're so funny, pouring _my_ liquor down the drain. Well, I think you'll find _I_ don't find it nearly so humorous!"

It must have been Ireland! The realisation struck Australia like cold water down the back, and he froze, eyes going wide. Where was the she-devil, to take her own punishment? Was she going to leave it to him, like some backstabbing scum? Australia's lips felt strangely unfeeling as he cried out, "It was Ireland, it wasn't me! I would _never_ touch it!"

"A blatant lie from a devilish child's tongue!" England spat, hand catching the front of Australia's shirt, before he could run away. Australia couldn't help it, the fear taking over as he let out a scream, feet scrabbling against the floor, desperately trying to keep distance between himself and the awful dictator of the house.

England gave a sharp tug, trying to pull him towards the living room, where Australia _knew_ he was sure to get slippered, if not worse. And, as the rising fear seemed to reach his throat, he realised England was wearing his traveling _boots_. Australia's fingers dug into the doorway before England could pull him much farther, progress grinding to a halt.

"Please! _Please_! I didn't do it!" Australia shrieked, desperately trying to hold on even as England swore like a sailor and tried to pry his fingers off, one by one. Feet pushing against the floor as he tried to go forward, Australia began to sob, a terrified, high-pitched sound, as his fingers were slowly losing their grip.

"I can't believe you for a second- I'll never get that heathen out of you, never! Best I can do is tame you!" With a huge tug, and a howl, Australia came free, and England dragged him to the couch, forcing him to bend over his lap.

"What the hell is going on in here?" It was Ireland, though that barely registered in Australia's mind as he fought against the elbow pinning him in place. England, however, stopping as he was untying his boot. "The little savage has taken all my liquor, and poured it out! I'm going to make sure he never tries something of this proportion ever again!"

"Idiot!" Ireland snapped, marching over. "I poured it out! Quit taking everything out on that poor lad and stop being such a drunk every time something goes wrong! America's gone, so just get used to it!"

Australia swore his whole body was shaking, still stuck in the rather vulnerable position of being bent over England's knee. England's tone was strangely heated when he replied, in a way that Australia couldn't identify. "I'm not upset about America, and I am not a drunk! Get back to your chores, you accursed woman!"

"You're not a drunk in the way wolves aren't bloodthirsty! You're a damn hypocrite, always yelling at me for drinking! Well, look in the mirror every so often!" Ireland was not going to let this go, coming closer to yell in England's face. England's elbow lifted, and Australia was quick to scramble to the safety of his room, ignoring England bellowing about how America didn't matter, he was just some upstart country that was sure to crumble!

Throwing himself on his bed, Australia covered his head with a pillow and tried not to think about his near fate, whole body still being very much on edge and pumped with adrenaline. More yelling floated up, and the thought never occurred to him: Ireland had stood up for him and not let him take the blame.

* * *

The knocking was a bit of a surprise to Canada. Who, besides England, knew where he lived? Who would even bother to visit? Then, a foolish hope bloomed like a bubble in his head. _France_ knew where he lived! He had to be the one who was at the door, it was the only explanation!

Giddy excitement rose in his chest, and he dashed to the door, flinging it open... Only to find it most certainly was _not_ France.

"America," he said, bitterness in his tone, though whether from who it was or who it was not, he couldn't say. The offending country stood across from him, not oozing confidence, but rather looking as though he were trying to swallow his mammoth pride.

"Canada. Can I come in?" America towered over Canada. He barely needed to ask to come in; it would be foolishness for Canada to refuse. Unwillingly, the colony stepped aside, letting him in. America was obviously trying to keep a casual gait, looking around and taking his time taking in the essence of Canada's home. However, Canada didn't let him observe like some tourist for long.

"What do you want?" When Canada broke the silence, America looked over, the look on his face appearing almost offended that Canada would just cut to the chase like that. However, after continued staring from Canada, he gave in.

"Listen, I need to talk to you," he said, turning away from the bear pelt he'd been looking at, and locking eyes with Canada. "It's about England."

Naturally, America wouldn't come just to see him, and try to fix their bond or anything of the sort. Had he really ever let go of England? But dwelling on America's mental and emotional states was not Canada's problem.

"Well, what is it?" Canada pointedly did not offer for him to sit down, have some tea, and relax. No, let the traitor stand, stand until he left this one sanctuary for Canada in the whole world! America shifted from foot to foot, then finally let out a big sigh.

"I need him to stop taking my sailors. They're mine, not his, and he has no right to conscript them into the Royal Navy. I don't want to go to war, but I will if I absolutely have to." America's face held a soft conviction, and it made Canada sick. Where did he get off, pretending to be this great guy with these great ideals?

"What exactly do you expect _me_ to do about it?" Canada couldn't say he had much sway with England. Or rather, as he was forced to admit, he didn't have _any_ sway with England. How had America reached the conclusion that he would be the best one to talk to?

"Well... I don't know, you're still on good terms with him, aren't you?" America was looking less and less sure, that confidence he had just seeming to die slowly. He probably was feeling more and more that he was wasting his time in coming here, and Canada tried to make sure he knew he was.

"I wouldn't talk to him for you if your whole country was on fire," he replied, trying to keep the anger he felt towards America contained, but knowing he let some of it show like red hot coals glinting in his eyes. America's eyes widened, and he seemed rather surprised.

"But I'm your brother! What are you so mad at me for?" Oh, as if the bastard didn't know! Did he not even care about what he'd done? Sure, he'd been driven off, and any wounds Canada had sustained were healed by now, but that didn't change what America had done! How dare he try and pull the brother card!

"I'm not helping you, and I never will! Just get out!" Canada practically slammed the door open, gesturing with one violent jab towards it. America seemed startled, shuffling out quickly like a child scolded harshly by their softspoken mother. Watching with anger as he left, Canada slammed the door shut behind him, nearly clipping his heels. And he hoped it hurt, that jerk.

How dare he show up and ask for Canada's help with what he had done. How dare he show up and not be France...

* * *

Ireland had a black eye. But it was not to be unexpected, Australia reasoned, since she was so bad and got into so much trouble. Maybe, if she were quiet and well-behaved like women were supposed to be, England wouldn't get into fights with her so much.

Dinner was silent, except for England's announcements about how the war was going. Australia didn't really care, so he didn't really listen. Canada would probably care, he was reminded, and he sullenly turned that thought away. He didn't want to think about Canada, who was happy and free and not here.

"Pass the salt, please." Ireland's voice was a little more subdued than usual, probably due to yet another recent fight. Australia complied wordlessly, knowing England was not fond of voices other than his own making conversation at the table. Said Empire seemed to be contemplating something.

"You've been much better behaved, Australia. Children should be seen and not heard, and I have heard hardly a word out of you all day." England's words were a bit of a surprise to Australia. Was this...praise? He didn't know how to respond, so he went for the most humble voice he could muster.

"Thank you sir." This seemed to have a good effect, though Australia felt strangely like he'd traded something away for it. England nodded, as though congratulating himself.

"It was Canada all along, encouraging you to do those things, wasn't it?" Now this felt like a trick question to Australia. What was he supposed to do, agree? It wasn't true! Canada was everything good that had happened to him! So he just sat silent, feeling a bit of anger at England for thinking such a thing about Canada. The goodly teen would have been shocked to be accused that way.

"It's such a good thing he's gone, isn't it? He wanted to stay, and continue to corrupt you, but by jove, I stopped that at the root! Hey, Australia, put down that plate this instant- Australia!" England's self-important chattering was interrupted by the smashing of china against the wall, and Australia standing up and looking furious, eyes wet with angry tears.

"It's not good he's gone, cause he loved me! He loved me, and you never loved me, you arse!" To say England looked appalled was only the tip of the iceberg. He didn't stay shocked long though, because Australia begant to pick up other china and smash it in his fury, in particular England's favorite platter.

"Now then, stop this nonsense! Australia, you stop throwing my good china this instant!" And the words weren't idle; England was pretty soon trying to yank the angrily heaving Australia off the table, while Ireland just watched in shocked silence.

But Australia had had enough. He wanted Canada, he wanted to be safe, and he couldn't even begin to express his inner passions about these feelings, even as they spilled out in the simple form of anger. Barely aware of the tears dripping down his face, he continued to yell and scream, "You hate me, you hate me, and I hate you! Just leave me alone!"

His wrists were caught by England, however, and he was pulled down, the empire saying, "You beastly child! I ought to throw you into a river and let you drown!"

"I don't care! I don't care!" Australia screamed, still consumed by his fury. He thrashed in England's grip, and for once not in fear. If this surprised England, he didn't show it, instead wrenching Australia towards the doorway. Ireland spoke up, shouting to be heard over the din that was Australia, "Where are you taking him?"

"It's none of your business! Just shut your gob and stay there until I get back!" And with that, he managed to drag Australia through the doorway and into the kitchen. But he didn't stop there, continuing to pull him towards the doorway to outside.

"You're mean, and ugly, and I hate you!" Australia howled rather loudly, very red in the face now. As soon as they got outside, England practically threw him against the fence. When he made a move to get away from it, England pressed him back.

"You stay right there, you irrepressible little brute! I can't believe you've erupted this way-" England ducked into the shed, rummaging around, while Australia took huge gasps of air, as though to quell the tantrum that still seemed to come swelling out of him. "I really thought you'd improved. But obviously I haven't be strict enough with you..."

England reemerged, with a long stick, thick as his thumb, in hand. Australia, immediately realising what it was for, made a dash for the house, but England was too quick, catching him by the back of the shirt. "I said to bloody well stay at the fence, and you will bloody well stay at the fence, or I will tie your hands to it, do you understand?"

Australia swore he got splinters in his hands as he was shoved back into the fence, face-first. But he was more concerned with the possibility of being caned than of having splinters in his hands, and he immediately made to run away again. Once again, England caught him, and, cursing the whole while, bound his hands to the nearest post, using a ribbon that had hung around England's neck.

"No! Stop it! I hate you!" If Australia could describe his tone, it would be a weird mixture between crying and roaring at England. However, whatever it was, it was uneffective, because even as Australia tried to twist his rear out of range, England struck it with the stick, sending a solid shock of pain up his spine and making him scream.

A second time, a third... It seemed as though it would never stop, but suddenly a shrill cry interrupted his own screaming. "Stop it, just stop it, you bloody bastard!"

Ireland's brogue was a surprising sound, almost as shocking as what she was doing- wrestling the rod out of England's hands. She ripped it free, mostly because England was every bit as surprised as Australia, and began to yell at him. "You bastard, can't you see he's just a child? Can't you see he's miserable because you beat him down at every turn? Leave him alone, for lord's sakes!"

And with that she threw the stick far over the fence, marching over towards Australia to untie him. England just watched, for a moment mouth opening and closing silently, before he bellowed, "You can't oppose me this way! I'm your master, and I'm his master, and what I do with him is none of your business! Get back in the house and leave him to his punishment!"

"I'm getting back to the house," came the reply, as she dragged Australia along with her. Australia was stunned. Ireland generally didn't look out for him, so why was she doing this? Her fingers gripped his shoulders even as England continued to yell after them, pulling him into the safety of the house.

"Shut the hell up, England!" She hollered, and Australia had never felt safer around someone so loud.

/AN/ I'm sorry it's takeb so long... things have been crazy with college and work... though now I've finally finished my summer job, so I should have a little more time to write before I start college. Anyway, history in this chapter:

Castle Hill Rebellion: in 1804, a bunch of the criminal shipped to Australia started a rebellion. It was mostly led by Irishmen, interestingly enough. Anyhow, it was defeated and the rebels were dealt with very harshly.

As for Ireland intervening and the Canada and America confrontation, that's pure fiction. Also, now there will be a timeskip! Cookies to anyone who guesses when we're skipping to!


	16. Chapter 16

Here's the timeskip! Now we get to see how much they've grown up. And yes, most of you were right, we're skipping to 1812! Here are your cookies! They're lemon.

Also, Canada is now more 15ish, and Australia has grown to 10.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

A teacup, a saucer, a small teapot full of steaming tea, a plate with crumpets, a pat of butter. Australia looked over the tray once more, making sure nothing was out of place. The stressful man upstairs, also known as England, was very particular about his afternoon tea, and could ruin Australia's day like no one could if made upset.

The porcelain rattled just a little as Australia lifted the tray, heading for the stairs. The house was quiet right now, as Ireland had pulled her leash to its limits and gone out to the furthest reaches of England's property. In fact, this situation was quite appealing to Australia. Once he served the old man his tea, he could slip away into the garden and visit with the nest of rabbits he had discovered the other day. Of course, he would never touch the baby rabbits. As he had learned, the hard way, mother rabbits won't feed their babies if they smell like humans, and England would sooner drown the lot than let him take care of them.

He maneuvered through the kitchen door, then the living room area, and lastly began his climb up the stairs. If he was lucky, England would be absorbed in his work and he wouldn't even acknowledge his presence. He had gotten to a point where things were more settled in this household, though he and Ireland still stirred up trouble every so often. It was in their nature, he supposed, though he wouldn't really call himself all that rebellious.

The door to England's workroom was open, and Australia let himself in silently. There, the great empire peered at a piece of paper, a frown sported on his features and a dull boredom in his eyes. The scent of ink, and of dry, rustling paper, hung in the air, the familiar yet not so soothing scent of England's office. Australia preferred the outdoors, with the woodsy smell of trees and the fragrance of flowers. Dirt was a far more pleasant smell, in any case.

The glass shook a little as he set down the tray, chittering on its saucer. England's green eyes didn't spare him a glance, as they set to work digesting an announcement before him. Rather than interrupt the process, Australia edged backwards towards the door, hoping to make it and not to bump his bum into the doorknob this time. But he could not risk taking his eyes off of England, or else surely the empire would feel the absence of attention and punish him.

"What do you call this?" England hadn't even looked up! His hand didn't even bother to gesture towards the offense, as though he expected Australia to know innately. Australia stood for a moment, kneading his fingers as his eyes scoured the tray for something off. The crumpets were there, not a crumb scattered; the teacup was clean; the teapot was brimming with hot tea; and the butter was barely melted. Confusion struck his mind as the thoughts began to race through at a faster speed. Nothing was wrong! Why was he in trouble?

England's finger soon put those thoughts to rest, as he pointed rather forcefully towards the piece of paper he had been reading, as though it had been clear he had been talking about that from the beginning. "Just see what this nonsense is, and see that you don't imitate it."

Australia shuffled forward, feet pressed against each other as he leaned over the desk to read. Now, he was not unintelligent; in fact, he had been learning all this legal script and such for a while now. But it still took some time for the words on the page to process, and during that time England's jaw seemed to be using more and more force to stay shut. This paper seemed to mean… that the United States of America was putting an embargo on the United Kingdom of Britain and Ireland. The question was, Australia pondered, as he tilted his head to one side, _what_ was an embargo?

"Well? Did you read it, or have you lost what little learning you could absorb?" It was unnecessarily stern, for of course Australia was doing what he was told, but England was probably in a bad mood because of this embargo. Some inner part of Australia twitched with anger, and he answered too fast, "Of course I read it!"

"Watch that mouth of yours," came the sharp reply, as England took the paper back. "Do you even understand what it means? I can only fit so much knowledge into your primitive little head, so I should hardly expect you are able to comprehend even a word of it."

This was the thing he hated, Australia reflected, as his eyes began to burn and sting. He wanted so badly to say he did understand, and demonstrate it, but he just didn't know that word! He must've heard it somewhere, why was he so dumb? Anyone else could remember it! America knew it, Canada knew it, everyone must have known it but him!

"Of course, you don't know it. What more could I expect from _you_?" England's voice was a sigh, sharper at the end of the sentence, as if to emphasize whose fault it was. Australia felt his lip begin to tremble, and he bit it viciously, because he _could not_ cry here, not with so much at stake, not with England ready to unleash his mean tongue on him.

"May I go now, sir?" It was too soon to ask, and he got a severe glare. England wasn't happy with him, not at all, and Australia felt a flurry of excited fear in his chest. His hands were beginning to shake once again, as he could feel the cold and dark of the closet closing in on him, trapping him in the small space with him and the voice in his head for company. He couldn't, he couldn't go back! He had to say something, anything, he had to-

"Mind your manners, boy. You will leave once I am done with my tea." It was as though the whole force of fear left him in one gush. He could sit and wait serenely, placidly, without any noise at all. He was well-behaved, most of the time, he could be so good some of the time. He moved the side of the desk silently, preparing to stand for a long time. Perhaps he had best find a subject to think on, such as the smell of grass, or the soft fluff of a kitten's fur. He liked distracting himself with thoughts of things to feel; maybe it was just the wild boy in him that liked to handle things.

"America is a fool." Ah, England was going to use him for a sounding board. Maybe he'd say something interesting, if Australia was lucky. "This embargo is like shaking a stick at a bigger man! I am thrice the nation he could ever be, the backwater brat! How _dare_ he try and throw this in my face, how dare he. His trade isn't that important, how can he think so highly of himself?"

Whether England was blustering about America's importance was not an easy thing to determine; frankly, Australia didn't care that much. He had never met this America, and he didn't care to. Only worse things could come from such a rebellious person, only bad ideas, like England said. That was why he'd sent Canada away, for catching onto America's ideas. Australia couldn't remember Canada ever being that way, not really, but he had to take England's word for it; there was no way to remember for sure.

"He has the _nerve_ to do all this! He thinks that because of France I'm too busy to worry about him, but by Jove I won't just stand back and take this!" England slammed his pen down onto the table, surely making a mark, one of many. Australia couldn't count the times he'd been tempted to connect them all to see what kind of a picture they made, but fear of the outcome far outweighed the novelty.

England took a drink that was just barely small enough to be considered a sip, and once again Australia wondered how he could drink it so piping hot. Waiting for it to cool down usually took up most of Australia's teatime, as well as adding as much sugar as could be snuck past England. It wasn't that he didn't like the taste of tea; it was that he liked the taste of sugar more. Plus cream. Cream was delicious, and he wished he got more of it.

"Little bastard…" England murmured, pursing his lips and putting the piece of paper down. He probably was envisioning America paying for his arrogance, Australia figured. In any case, so long as it wasn't him, it was fine what England envisioned being punished. Another clink of the teacup sounded in the room that was otherwise silent as a graveyard when no one has recently died.

When he got out of here, Australia was going to go outside, and climb the pine tree out back. He loved the way the pine smell filled his nostrils and got stuck on his hands as he climbed, and the needles didn't bother him so much. In fact, he'd pretty much cleared a way through the thicker branches, so that he could stay perched up there for hours.

Caution was needed, however. If he was out at the wrong time, he was sure to be discovered climbing the tree. He trusted Ireland enough to know she wouldn't tattle on him, but if England found him, he was sure to be punished severely. He hadn't been thrashed in some time, but he always feared that England would bring out that rod once again and beat him into submission.

If England was working on anything else, Australia realized, he wasn't really trying at it. His gaze always seemed to go back to the paper, and he'd make a face at it and then look away, only to end up with his eyes reading it once more. His tea was an afterthought, which he sipped in between doing this. Australia had always known America had had a strong effect on England, and he had some idea as to why, after all this time: America had left him.

And of course, this obviously made England angry, which was why he was such a bitter old man. Australia shifted from foot to foot. It didn't seem fair that he had to catch the consequences of America's actions, but here he was. There was nothing to do about it, until he met America. Then maybe he could convince him to come back, and then England would forget about Australia's background.

"Well? Are you going to stand there all day? I'm done." The teapot may not have been empty, but England was obviously in too bad a mood to really enjoy his tea. The only reason Australia regretted that was that he may end up taking it out on him. In any case, though, he was glad to leave, lifting the tray silently and heading out. No words were uttered at his leave, and Australia was glad; a call back or a sharp goodbye were both pretty unwelcome at this point in his mind.

As he headed down the stairs, his relief rose, and by the time he reached the kitchen, he was grinning. Now was the time to enjoy the outdoors!

* * *

By now, Canada was not surprised when there was a knock on his door, nor was he hopeful for his long-lost father figure to appear. There could only be one ignoramus coming to visit him, or else even less pleasant company. Heaving the heavy door open, he greeted the unwelcome guest.

"Hello America. What do you want now?" America smiled back at him awkwardly, as though it weren't a matter of importance he was coming to visit for, but maybe permission to court a girl Canada had his eye on or something else more frivolous. "Hello. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine." Canada didn't want him here. It was as though he were showing up solely to rub his freedom in his face, to show that he could travel where ever he wanted to without reprimand. America nodded, as though he had expected Canada's answer, as though he _knew_ him.

"Yes, well, I wanted to talk." Of course, didn't he always want to talk? It was as though there was no way to shut him up. He never really cared about hearing from Canada; he probably wanted something from him again. Well, he certainly wasn't going to get _anything_.

"About what?" Canada was too polite, too well brought up to simply snap at him and tell him he didn't want to hear another word out of his traitorous mouth. Aggression was in him; it just wasn't at the surface, it wasn't his first weapon in a confrontation or bad situation. He didn't want to be a firebrand like America could be.

"Well… I know I've asked you this before, but it's been a while, so… I'll just come out and say it. I need England to stop supporting the Indians! I have to keep my borders on the defensive all the time, and I can't expand very easily at all!" America's face _looked_ sincere and upset, but the man hadn't even gotten upset at leaving England, Canada was sure. Because if he had been upset, he would've done something to make it right, not leave them all stuck in this situation!

"And you expect me to do what, exactly?" Canada rather coolly walked over towards his clock, one of the most expensive things in the house. It ticked quietly, keeping him calm and reminding him of England's house, where there had been a large clock on the mantel. That was the reason he'd gotten one, honestly; suddenly, the house had the good memory of Australia, and he didn't want to leave it all behind.

"Well, can't you talk to him or something? Please, I know you don't like to, but do you really want Indians for neighbors instead of me?" America was exaggerating the threat, but Canada had to stop and ponder the question. Truth be told, he had generally gotten along better with some of the Indian tribes than America, in his history. Others were violent, and he'd had a rocky time learning to get along. But as a whole, he didn't simply condemn Indian nations. Even if England didn't always like them, he did.

When America noticed he really seemed to be mulling this over, he gave him an exasperated look. "It's rhetorical, Canada, there's no way you could choose them over me!"

"Couldn't I?" Canada asked, raising his eyebrows. Sometimes, getting on America's nerves was more fun than just telling him the truth. America gave him a frown, crossing his arms. "If you don't want to talk to him, you can just say so!"

This wasn't true, of course. America would normally try to wheedle a favorable answer out of him if he tried to say no nicely, as if he just needed to say the right thing to get what he wanted. Canada hated that, but it seemed he had got him to cut to the end rather quickly this time. This was good news, he realized, as America started to leave the house.

"You know we're brothers, right? England hasn't lied to you about that, has he?" As if he was stupid enough to be tricked into that. Besides, the resemblance between them was uncanny. "I know, America. Just go, and don't waste your breath."

With a huff, America disappeared out the door, leaving Canada alone with his thoughts. America always got him thinking, about how different things might have been if the bastard had stayed. Maybe they'd get along. Maybe they'd all be happy, and he'd be able to see Australia again. Hopefully, the child was still sane; Canada didn't think he was that emotionally strong, not at that age. The last thing he needed was to lose it and be put in an asylum somewhere. A shudder went through Canada, and he dismissed the thought.

He looked over at the clock, wondering: What was Australia up to?

* * *

Dinner was, to put it lightly, a bore. Australia didn't know why England still insisted on having it all together, because nothing good ever came of it. Ireland picked at her food across from him, her hair kerchief still on from working in the kitchen that day. She worked in the kitchen pretty much every day but Sunday, so he was surprised her hair wasn't permanently shaped the way the kerchief made it go.

England didn't ask questions this time, interrogating either of them about their time and how it had been spent. Gratefully, Australia dug into his food, enjoying the good cooking of Ireland. Of course, being careful about how he ate it was a must; chewing with his mouth open, holding a utensil wrong, taking too big of bites, it all spelled not getting to eat the rest of dinner due to being confined to the chair or the closet.

"I saw a dog at the wash line today; he tore your favorite shirt beyond repair." Australia's head whipped up at Ireland's words, only to find, to his relief, that she was talking to England. Said empire clenched his teeth, stabbing a piece of beef viciously. "You should be more careful, then. Set Australia to watching it so things like this don't happen."

"Oh, you know how busy the boy is. I don't see how I can pull him away from his chores and learning." Ireland looked rather nonchalant, speaking while examining her fingernails. Australia began to chew his lip nervously, not wanting this to erupt into another fight. He _hated_ when Ireland and England fought, it just wasn't something _anyone_ could enjoy being around.

Grinding his teeth, the Englishman replied, "I'm sure he could take a short respite from whatever he is doing. Don't question me, Ireland."

She should stop, Australia thought. She should leave him alone and let dinner resume in its quiet fashion. Did she like fighting or something? He knew he didn't. "I'll do it, whenever you need me to," he murmured, swiftly followed by some of the salad.

Ireland looked disappointed somehow, and again Australia wondered if she really did enjoy riling England up that much. Nothing good ever came of it, so why on earth risk anything on it? England looked smug, though he muttered, "Don't speak unless spoken to."

But it was okay, everything was calming down. Then, however, England's hands flew up to his head, clutching at it uselessly as he let out a shocked cry. Australia's fear flooded through his system. What was going on? Was England _dying_?

Up and out of her seat in an instant, Ireland stood by England as he gasped rapidly, obviously trying to deal with whatever the heck was going on. He knocked his fork to the floor, not even seeming to notice the small stain he had made. Australia was frozen in his seat, beginning to breathe rapidly like his master, tears starting to well up in his eyes. He didn't want England to _die_! Who would take care of him, who would look after him? He could end up with anyone!

"Calm down, just breathe slowly," Ireland advised, hand hovering over him. It confused Australia, seeing her seem to care for England. Didn't she hate him? Wasn't that just how people interacted with England? However, despite Ireland's kindness, England growled, "I'm fine! L-Leave me be!"

And he got up, stumbling towards the doorway, nearly hitting the doorpost on his way out. He was still gasping in pain as he left, and Australia's mind was left in chaos. Why would anyone refuse help from someone who was being nice? Why was England in pain? Did something happen to him Australia didn't know about?

"Well, Lord Grumpness is going to take care of himself, apparently," Ireland said, helping herself to his food. "So I guess he won't be needing any of this."

"But what just happened? Is he going to die?" Australia begged for answers from the one mildly trustworthy source he knew of. Ireland had a tendency to be frank, though on occasion she seemed to like to tell tall tales, such as about leprechauns, who he was sure never really existed.

"I don't know," Ireland sighed, still scraping England's food off of his plate onto hers. "I suppose there's probably been a major accident or small disaster."

"Like what?" Australia asked, eyes getting wide. How could a disaster be small, anyway? It sounded like it would have to be big and bad, every time. Ireland shook her head, putting some beef in her mouth. "I don't really know. Can't be anything too big, or he'd be more incapacitated."

A muffled curse was heard, coming from the upstairs, as what sounded like a foot stamped the ground. How England had made it up there, what with his hands mostly obscuring his eyes, Australia had no idea, but at least he was up there and not down here. The man could be a beast when he was in pain.

* * *

America hadn't come to visit for a while. Maybe Canada might have been pleased had it not left him concerned. If America wasn't pleading with him to talk to England and get things sorted out, he might have decided that settling things like rational beings was out of the question; he may have decided to just take things into his own hands.

Being as confident as he was in his own abilities, the United States of America might just see himself as on par with England, and able to take him on. Or at least, he might realize that England was rather occupied by the war with France; he might think that it would be easy to take on the Royal Navy.

If something like that happened, where would Canada stand? Would he have to join the battle? He had fought before, in what England called the French and Indian War, and he'd been in scrapes with Indians, but could he really fight his brother, however much he hated him? America was strong, he knew, even if he was a young country. There was no telling the destruction that could happen if there was an attack.

A flash of a thought told him this could never had happened had he remained with France, but a secondary thought reminded him this wasn't true. America always wanted more land; if he were with France now, America might have attacked to take his territory and add it to his own.

Canada sighed, putting his hand against his forehead. Was there no way out of war? He didn't like it; it seemed so senseless to start one. Maybe sometimes there was a good reason, but if people could just be reasonable there would never be a reason to start a war again.

Of course, England would consider that sort of thinking rather silly, because how could he show off his superior naval power without wars? It was not as though the UK had much going for it, culturally speaking, at least in Canada's opinion. Sure, it had some beautiful natural landscapes, particularly in Scotland, but was the UK an artistic powerhouse, like Italy? Did it have amazing composers, like Austria and other European countries? Shakespeare was beautifully written, but did the UK really have a lot of recognition for such literary masterpieces?

He couldn't say for sure. All he knew was, a lot of England's current glory had to do with power, and military might. There was no way the empire would abandon it in pursuit of peace, not when he had a chance to show his might.

America didn't stand a chance.

* * *

"The Hell is this?" came the yell, as well as a loud slam. Australia didn't want to huddle against the wall beside the couch and hope that England didn't see him, because Canada never did that, but it was what he ended up doing anyway.

What had sparked off England's rage, he wondered? It was probably one of the documents delivered today, as always, because Ireland was outside, and she hadn't set pranks in a long time. Slamming down the stairs as though he had put on considerably weight, England entered the room, and Australia cowered more.

However, England sat down on the edge of a chair, resting his elbows on his knees and tightly clenching his hands together. This was utterly strange to Australia, who simply stared at his master. He wasn't throwing things. He wasn't screaming. He didn't even seem to have that cruel look in his eye. No, England was just sitting there, face in a frown as he seemed to mull over the thing that had happened.

Australia couldn't comprehend it. What was wrong with England? Was he sick? Did he hit his head on something particularly hard? In any case, he wasn't moving an inch until England was gone.

"Why do you always have to do this?" England murmured, and for a moment, Australia was terrified, freezing and eyes widening, sure that he had been seen. But England didn't call him out, and, as Australia looked closer, he realized he wasn't even looking at him. Instead, the empire stared ahead, eyes clouded with an emotion Australia couldn't read.

"You're such a fool. You always have been. I should have raised you better…" England sighed, running his hand through his hair. Australia wondered who he was talking to, and why. Why would a person talk to someone who wasn't there? Wasn't the whole point of talking someone else hearing you?

"If I'd only caught that rebellious streak early, I could have snuffed it out. You could have been just like Canada, obedient and quiet. Why didn't I notice?" Why was England berating himself? Australia began to doubt that he wasn't talking to him, and began to get nervous, trying to decide if he should answer. Children didn't speak unless spoken to, and he was being spoken to, right? Or was this one of those moments where he wasn't supposed to reply?

"I-" Australia's tiny, wavering voice was cut off by England, who didn't notice him. "If I had only treated you more like I treated other territories under my control! Maybe you'd know respect then!"

England stood, pacing. "But now I've got to teach it to you. I may have left you be once, but I won't take this lying down! You're just a little country in a big world, America! You'll learn your place if I have to chain you to it!"

With a willful stride, he headed out of the room, upstairs, presumably to make arrangements to put America in his place. Australia let out a sigh of relief, glad to have come close to trouble but not be harmed. He'd better head out to the garden, he reasoned, where it was safe. Ireland was sure to be weeding.

* * *

There wasn't a knock at Canada's door this time; no, this time it slammed open, right in the middle of Canada's meal. He nearly choked on his soup, coughing and looking over in shock to see who the heck would break into his house in broad daylight.

"America?" he wheezed, seeing that blonde brother of his with musket in hand, looking rather determined. As it was aimed at him, however, America didn't immediately start threatening. No, what he said was rather surprising to Canada.

"Come with me. You don't have to be part of the British Empire anymore!" Canada just stared, trying to figure this one out. Had America noticed how unhappy he was, being part of the empire? Or was it just for his own selfish gains that he offered a way out? Surely, he meant becoming one country with him, and that was something Canada _did not_ want to do.

"Just hold on a minute- I don't want to go with you!" To say he was ill-prepared for a war was to put it nicely. Canada was not well-trained for battle, and he didn't have a lot of weapons and such. However, it seemed now America was unsure, looking just as shocked as Canada had a few moments ago.

"What?" he asked dumbly, as though he simply hadn't anticipated such a response. He stopped aiming the gun at Canada, looking a little deflated. "But… Don't you want freedom? Wouldn't you rather be with me than him?"

Would he? It made Canada stop and think a moment. Would it be worse with America, or better? There might be some level of equality between the two of them, since they both were colonies and had so much in common. But could he put aside his dislike and distrust of America enough to do something like this? Could he leave Australia behind?

The image of the frightened, crying child he had left behind struck full force, and he shook his head slowly. "I have my reasons for staying," he told America, walking over towards him. "You're not welcome, so please leave."

America's confidence seemed to falter, as his mouth opened and closed without making a sound. He was sure to leave now, since his plan had probably hinged on Canada _wanting_ to come with him. Which had really been an absurd idea, in Canada's opinion, since after all that-

Canada went reeling backwards, pain blossoming on the side of his head. Eyes wide, he stared back at America, trying to figure out how he had been hurt, even though he _knew_, even though it was obvious from the way America was holding his musket that he had just swung it.

"You're coming with me!" America yelled, and he dove forward at Canada, leaving the startled colony little time to react except to try and hurl himself out of the way. How could this be happening? How could America do this to him? Did he care at all for his brother's feelings? It wasn't likely, Canada concluded, as he dodged him once again.

"America, this is ridiculous, stop it!" Because there was no way for Canada to stop America unless he convinced him to; there was no denying the other was stronger. England wasn't exactly providing Canada a lot of protection either, since he was still involved in the war on the continent. He had to make America realize that this was just silly, and he should leave him alone.

"You should be grateful!" America informed him, diving for him once again, and completely ignoring use of his musket other than as a club. Maybe it was because it was so close quarters, it would be hard to get a shot lined up before Canada knocked the gun aside or attacked him. Which, he wasn't going to do, of course. Attacking would be foolhardy, when he was the weaker of the pair.

"Please, I don't want to go! I don't want trouble! Why do you want me anyway?" Not that he didn't know about America's interest in expansion, but there was plenty of land he could expand into once he defeated the Indians. Canada was a pretty peaceful neighbor; the Indians weren't always. Why focus on _him_?

America caught him by the legs this time, pinning them against the floor. Canada tried to kick free, but America was _heavy_.

"You want to know why? Alright, I'll tell you. Because that eyebrow-bastard doesn't deserve to have you! He should just stay out of North America completely! Besides, it'll really piss him off." To say Canada was flabbergasted was under-representing the situation. America was invading him to make England _angry_? He clawed against the floor, trying to get out of America's hold.

"America! You- you- ugh! You're such an idiot!" Anger had begun to spread in Canada's system, and he twisted around and began to beat at America with his fist. America seemed impervious to the pain, instead grabbing Canada's arm and beginning to drag him off.

"This is really all for the better. You'll see!" America sounded strangely chirpy, despite Canada's struggling to break free. However, when Canada landed a kick to his knee cap, it made him make rather loud grunt and let go of his northern neighbor. "Ah! My knee!"

It was all the time Canada needed. He dashed into the bedroom (two room house, thank goodness) and shut the door, immediately sitting against it and trying to catch his breath. England was sure to hear about this, England was sure to come. All he had to do was keep him out of the bedroom, and he would be fine.

He broke a moose antler off of one of his hunting trophies and hurriedly reclaimed his position in front of the door, just in time for America to come pushing on it. "Hey! I know you're in there! Open the door!"

Fingers began to show through the opening in the door as Canada was unwillingly slid forward. Canada narrowed his eyes angrily at them, and then cracked them with the antler. He was reward with a small shriek, and the disappearance of the fingers. "Stay out, America!"

He had a long night ahead of him.

* * *

England was angry, and Australia didn't know why. Not that that was unusual, but it frightened him all the same. Worse yet, England was angry at the table; there was no escape now.

"The little bugger thinks he can take cheap shots at me while I'm engaged in a _real_ war! He's taking it all too far!" England raged at his beef and gravy, viciously chewing it up. Ireland, of course, had to have her say, since she tended to support America (or anyone) over England.

"He's just standing up for himself. Didn't _you_ teach him to do that?" She said it like she didn't know it would make England angry, and Australia had to wonder at how she hadn't learned to avoid things that made him angry after all this time. England's face turned ugly, eyes like sharp green glass.

"I did _not_ teach him that! That had to have been Prussia, or France! Bastards…" England took a chug from his beer bottle, which he had gotten the habit of bringing to the table sometime after Canada had left.

Australia missed Canada. Canada had always been so brave, and so soft, and so nice. He loved him, like no one ever had. Could there ever be another person like Canada in his life? It didn't seem as though he were lucky enough for that.

"Now I'm going to have to go over there!" Oh, England was complaining again. Go over where, though? Maybe he was going to go over and bring Canada back. Or maybe he was talking about France once again. If there was an enemy England liked to complain about, it was France, apparently for 'causing this whole damn mess.'

In any case, at least if England was gone, it would just be him and Ireland. He liked Ireland much better than England any day, even if she threatened to 'spank his bare bottom with a spoon' if he ever touched her 'womanly garments' again. Apparently one was never supposed to wear women's knickers on their head. Though in his defense, he hadn't known they were women's knickers at the time…

* * *

America was still there, there was no doubt about it. Canada was fortunate to have his pantry in his bedroom, because otherwise he might have given up and let America take him. In fact, if it weren't for the fact he had to keep leaning up against this door, he wouldn't consider this too bad an arrangement.

Going in a bucket hadn't been his favorite method of relieving himself, but he had done it before due to inclement weather, so it was not as though he could really complain. Outside his door, America whined like a baby denied its bottle.

"Canada! I'm hungry! Come on, just give up already and let me have some food!" Canada just shook his head in disbelief. America didn't seem to have been ready for the circumstance of not being able to secure victuals from Canada's house; he was probably pretty hungry right if he was saying such ridiculous things.

"Go home!" Canada yelled back, chewing on some jerky. He could hold out til England got here, presuming he did. Even if he didn't like Canada personally, he was likely to come for economic purposes, so Canada wasn't too afraid of being abandoned.

"But Canada…" America was still trying to force his way, it seemed, even though he had nothing to go on and bruised knuckles to boot. Canada groaned, sinking down further against the door. It was getting on his nerves, being trapped in this room while America did whatever in the other one. He wished he were strong enough to simply force him out, but it simply wasn't how it was.

Why did these things happen to _him_, though? He'd always had a more peaceful approach than America, or England. Shouldn't people who were peaceful deserve peace? It just wasn't fair. Though, he was hardly war torn; Europe would be a more accurate definition of that term. They did tend to bring it on themselves, though, in Canada's opinion.

A stomping noise was made, as though America were stamping his foot like an angry child. "That's it, I'm going home! You're impossible!"

Canada's heart lifted as America clomped out of his house, and he eagerly threw open the door to see if it was true. And it was, no tricks, like he mildly suspected! America was gone, with his musket and uniform and conquering ambitions!

Dashing to the door, Canada was quick to lock it, so that a change of heart from America wouldn't lead to a re-invasion. What a relief, not having to stay in that one room any longer! Canada could say he had never grown to dislike a part of his own house so much until he'd been trapped in it. In any case, this called for pancakes and syrup.

As he began to get out the ingredients, however, there was a knock to the door. Getting suspicious, Canada found his musket, and edged towards the front door. "Who's there?"

"England! Open this door this bloody instant!" Canada hesitated a moment. Did he want to let England in? This was his home, his one safe place in the world. For England to enter it just felt wrong… but refusal to obey was something even worse, so he unlatched the door, allowing the irate Englishman in.

"Bloody America! He's already been here, hasn't he? And to think, I was going to try and patch things up!" England's eyebrows were pulled down angrily, as he stomped in, in full uniform. He looked Canada up and down, and then just about exploded.

"Why the bloody hell aren't you in uniform? We're at war!" Canada nodded, and scrambled back towards his room. "I'm going to change into it, I just didn't get a chance to yet!"

He remembered England being taller, strangely enough… and a little scarier. Even this mad, he didn't look like an angry mountain lion anymore. Canada wondered if England had changed, or if he had changed, in the period between his departure and England's arrival here.

Slipping the stiff fabric on, it reminded Canada that he hadn't been in such a war in some time, if he could count the last time as ever. He wasn't built for fighting, he was sure of it- but if it came down to retaining his land or being taken by America, he was sure he would fight tooth and nail. He may not like all of being part of the British Empire, but it was his home, his dysfunctional family. Whatever America could offer would never be the same.

"I'm leaving, with or without you!" England was in a right mood, and it seemed to Canada as though this second war with America was probably a strong irritant for the empire. This was strange, because his absence seemed to be an irritant as well. Best to look to the future, Canada sighed inwardly. He'd better not let himself get too riled up over all of this.

It was a hike to America's house, his nearest to the border, as far as Canada was aware. Throughout it all, England kept a stern look on his face, as though to keep in mind that this was _war_, there were to be no games or shenanigans.

Should he have gone with America? Canada couldn't be sure. On one hand, he would be with America. On the other hand, he would be with England. It wasn't an easy choice, in any case. It was sure to be difficult living with both strong personalities, and Canada would ultimately rather dance with the devil he knew than the devil he did not.

As the house came into view, Canada could see America on the inside of it, through the window. Apparently, he saw them too, for he jumped about a foot. He must not have expected them to come, Canada realised. He probably thought he could get away with attacking and then just running away, without being chased.

"America, you bloody git! Get the hell out here and fight us like the nation you claim to be!" England certainly was being harsh today. It was prbably the fact that he not only had to see Canada again, but he had to fight America, who he seemed to still have strong feelings for. It was a mess Canada did not want to unravel, and so he stood there silently, ready to follow orders.

"You can have the house!" America hollered, and he disappeared from view. Moments later, there was the slam of a door. Canada chanced a glance over at England, wondering if the same surprise was hitting him in the face like a spray of salt water. If he was to go by his slack-jawed face, then yes, England was just as surprised.

"What the bloody hell…?" England managed, staring at the house as though he couldn't comprehend that it was suddenly in his possession. What would cause America to just give up, without even fighting? He'd seemed so eager for a fight before, when he'd stormed Canada's house…

"Stay here, stay _right here_. I must go get a flag to affix to this monstrosity America calls a house." England talked to him as though he were a child who would wander off if not instructed on where to stand. It gave him hope that Australia's spirit was alive and well, causing him to do things that made England feel the need to be so particular.

In any case, it wasn't like he would find out any time soon, he realised with a heavy heart.

* * *

Canada was not startled when America came again, nor was he surprised when he fled again. It seemed as though he was nowhere near prepared for a war, and it gave Canada hope that it would over soon, that America would see the error of his ways.

England had been there as well, driving off America and cursing him very loudly, but Canada did notice something as the empire walked back to the house: his eyes were red rimmed.

/AN/ Whew! My longest chapter yet, like ever in the history of my writing! I hope you liked it! As for the delay, I feel I must explain: Preparing for college and my job took up most of my time in the summer; now, I am in college full-time and I am working very hard to know the ins and outs of the human body. As such, I don't have as much time to write. However, I will work at updating, because I really enjoy writing and I don't want to leave this story unfinished.

Okay, history time: The USA enacts an embargo against the UK, on April 4, due to worsening tensions because of various things, including: Impressment of American sailors; British support of the Indian Nations; The UK's restrictions on the USA's trade with France. After that, there was the Felling Mine Disaster, an explosion in a mine in England. It killed 96 miners. Then, the one you've all been waiting for: The War of 1812! Ironically, war was declared by the USA around the same time the UK was going to try and work things out; however, the news took about two or three weeks to travel overseas, and by then it was too late. The first attack on Canada was on the little town of Sandwich, in Ontario. It was easily taken over, and some Canadians even joined; however, the majority were against being invaded and refused to supply the invaders with food. Eventually, the Americans had to retreat to Detroit. There, they surrendered to the British, Canadian and Native American forces. A month later, they attacked across the Niagra, and were turned away.

A note here is that while the land war was going horribly, the Americans were doing pretty darn well at sea, so it wasn't onesided. Also, neither side was really prepared for a war, with only about 6,000 troops in Canada and initially 10,000 American troops, which were expanded with inexperienced new recruits.

So yeah, I'm not dead, by the way, but I am feeling like I'm dying. College is challenging, to say the least. But at least I get to buy cool snacks at the vending machine!


	17. Chapter 17

And we're into the War of 1812! But what bearing will this have on Australia's life? Or will it have any bearing at all? Read on and find out!

I don't own Hetalia! end/AN/

The jar wasn't heavy in Australia's hands as he examined it, staring at the raspberry jam inside. A question weighed heavily on his mind, one of great importance in the moment. Ireland had told him that the jam was no good, and he was to throw it out; but it seemed like such a waste of delicious jam to do that. Could he throw away something that could turn out to be very tasty?

On one hand, Ireland didn't usually steer him wrong. Sure, there had been the embarrassing moments when she got him to try dog food, and another when she got him to wear a girl's bonnet, insisting it was the latest fashion in France. Otherwise, she was pretty trustworthy.

On the other hand, jam was good. Really, really good. And it was also a treat, one he didn't often get. There were sometimes teatimes where he would get jam on delectable shortbread, and he loved those occasions. Raspberry was also his favorite, tangy and yet sweet on the tongue.

It didn't look that bad in the jar. Only one spot was a discolored blue shade; the rest looked perfectly fine. And he did love jam, he thought to himself, starting to unscrew the top of the jar. He wouldn't eat the bad part, he reasoned, just the part that looked tasty.

Some people might mind the seeds, but he didn't; it was just part of raspberries, really. And raspberries were one of the best kinds of berries he knew. Off came the top of the jar, and a smell that was not quite normal greeted his nose. But he hadn't had jam in a while, so it might just be that this was a different batch, so it smelled different.

He paused. Ireland had said to just throw it away; maybe there was wisdom in those words. But jam! How often did he get it, especially in such a large quantity? Not as much as he wanted, nor as much as could be given to him, if England would only let up on him.

Determinedly, he stuck a finger into the sticky mess, avoiding the bluish spot. It stuck to his finger, and felt so squishy as it gave way beneath his finger, like a particularly goopy patch of mud. He curled his finger and brought out a chunk of it, and without hesitation, stuck it in his mouth.

A burst of flavor attacked his tongue, not only of good, sweet raspberry, but of alcohol, that substance he had so little taste for, and some sort of strange sour strain. Very quickly was the mass expelled, and Australia continued to spit, trying to get the flavor out of his mouth.

Well, apparently there was a reason he was to throw it away, he surmised bitterly, disappointed by the lack of a treat of raspberry jam today. He scraped it out into the trash, putting the jar to be washed. There was no reason to waste it, after all. England would be mad to find him or Ireland wasting money in any way.

Australia spat again, into the wash basin. That nasty taste would probably pervade his whole day now. Just wonderful.

* * *

Canada couldn't say he wasn't on edge. No, he had been watching and waiting and following England's orders for some time now, war the dark thrill in his mind. He didn't want to be enthralled by the idea that he could be destroyed, or else destroy America, but here it sat in his thoughts, whispering that this war was going to change everything.

And it wasn't that he couldn't handle change from this situation. No, he didn't really prefer his previous condition, alone and cut off from the countries he knew so well. Yes, he was self-sufficient and doing okay, but he had to wonder about Australia, Scotland, and the rest of the UK. He wasn't a mindless teen, able to only think about himself. He _needed_ others, and he was sure they needed him too.

In any case, he knew that America was not the same. America didn't need to needed in the same way; he needed to be wanted, to be seen. He wanted to see everyone and have them acknowledge him. Such a selfish way of looking at life, really, in Canada's opinion.

It was better to be needed than to be wanted or idolized. Canada felt a twinge in his heart, thinking of how Australia could need him even now. What if the child had become some perverse twisting of a human being, afraid of being hurt and relying on no one? What if he had gone back to the stage of being a brat, and assuming everyone was out to get him?

There was no way to know if he had simply adjusted, and matured like Canada had, or if he had gotten worse. It was something needed to talk to England about: seeing Australia once again. If only the continental war weren't going on, Canada thought, because then England could devote his forces to driving America away from Canada and crushing his army.

But as it was, Canada had to make due. He wasn't as strong as America, but he knew he had staying power; he'd been a colony for over a hundred years, even through wars and changing ownership. He might not be some longstanding culture in Europe, but there was no way he was giving up now and losing his identity.

The tea brewing in his house filled the air with a minty smell, and Canada was brought back from his thoughts. That was right, he should relax, just a little. Always being on edge would dull his senses in the long run, and he wouldn't be prepared in battle.

Sitting on the hard seat of the chair he made himself, Canada couldn't help but wonder why he got dragged into these messes. All he had, as resources, were things that America had anyway. Timber, fresh water, furs, coal and all that. His only value would be more land, and it wasn't as though, in his opinion, America was ready for more responsibility.

But no, he didn't want to think things through thoroughly right now. Now was the time to just enjoy his tea, hot in his mouth and warm in his stomach. He wouldn't've told England, but he slurped it, because it was so hot, and he didn't feel as though he could wait longer for it to cool down.

Another attack was sure to come; England already battled furiously with America at sea, with the upstart winning many of their matches. It was because the best ships were busy fighting around the continent, Canada surmised.

It was cool out, not extraordinarily cold, but Canada noticed that his fire was starting to die down, and his firewood was pretty much out. A sigh exited his mouth; he would have to go outside and chop some more.

Getting on his coat and boots, and grabbing his hatchet, Canada headed outside, looking around cautiously. There was no reason to not be cautious in such a wild area, not to mention that America could attack at any time. A bear might be worse; Canada was more afraid of a mauling than a beating any day.

He already had some logs put aside in a lean-to, where they would be relatively dry. It was only a matter of chopping one into more manageable pieces. Seizing one of the large sections of tree trunk, he hauled it over to a relatively flat surface, and went to go get his wedge. Breaking it in half would save time as compared to chopping it in half, vertically speaking.

However, a sudden cracking caught his ear, and he froze. No time to waste, he berated himself, as he spun around to face the foe-

-and foe it was, for there was America, full uniform and musket in hand, aiming at him! Canada's soul nearly leapt out of his mouth, as he dove for cover. America was here! And he was firing at him, he realized, as the crack of a shot sounded far too closely for comfort.

This was nothing new, this was nothing new, why was he so freaked out? As America reloaded his gun, Canada looked franticly for a pathway to his door. There was none, and so he huddled behind his firewood, praying a bullet would not strike him.

"America! Stop this, it's madness!" How could he be worth so much to America, and yet valued so little, that he would want to harm him this way to get him? They had never been close after childhood, and they never would be again, that Canada was certain of, he was just a lifeless piece of land to be owned to America.

Another shot! Canada gripped his hatchet tighter, knowing, and yet fearing, that he had to take some action, or else simply wait to be shot. The clinking noise of America reloading his gun gave him the guts to stand up, before a shot could be taken.

There before him, America knelt, getting the bullet and gunpowder appropriately place. Surprised blue eyes met Canada's, as he stared at him standing there. It only lasted a second, and somehow, instead of reassuring Canada of America's humanity, it only made his blood boil. How dare he come here again, how dare he attack him in his own home!

With a wild yell, Canada lunged forward with his hatchet, eliciting a startled yelp from America as the latter scrambled backwards to avoid having his head cloven in two. He looked surprised, almost as though he expected Canada to lie down and take it- but that was the last thing on Canada's mind!

He swung again, practically snarling at America as the young nation squawked and hurled himself away. "Canada, just stop! You know it's for the best!"

"It is _not_ for the best! You can't just decide things for me, America!" Why didn't he understand? Was he going to have to bury the hatchet in his head to get something in there besides dust bunnies?

America seized Canada's wrists, effectively halting his attack. Canada's breath seized in his throat, and he tried to pull back, to be trapped in America's grip was to lose the appendages-! "America!"

Searing pain shot up his arms as America's fingers dug in, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out. The hatchet dropped, narrowly missing America's boot clad foot. Canada had no weapon, no defense against the American now, even if the other was also weaponless.

"Just stop fighting! You're so stupid!" America pushed forcefully on Canada, sending him stumbling backwards as the other advanced. Anger, childish and petulant, was portrayed in America's features, as his jaw clenched and his eyebrows lowered.

A cold splash fell across Canada's heart, as he stared into the burning blue irises of his brother. This was serious, oh so serious… There was no way to stop America, even as he struggled ineffectually to free his wrists from America's grasp, which ground the bones together relentlessly.

"America…" He hated how frightened he sounded, how frightened he _felt_; he was just a boy suddenly, not a soldier, not toughened by his many years. He was just the small child found by France, tiny and cold in the snow.

"No, don't even try to pull that! I'm your _brother_, your real brother, and you still want to stay with him! What the Hell do I have to do to get you on my side?" America's tirade, as he finally backed Canada against a tree, made something come together inside of Canada, instead of pieces shaking around in fright. The gall, the unmitigated _gall_, to say something that!

"Get off of me! You're not my brother!" For a million reasons, for one reason: he left. Brothers should never leave when they're still wanted, when they're still _needed_. America didn't truly care about him, and he resolved to never care about America either!

His head whipped to the side, as pain rapidly radiated throughout his skull, causing him to give something of whimper. The pressure on his wrists had lessened, but America still had them by one hand; curse his larger size and older age.

America glared, but faltered in saying whatever it was he wanted to say. Instead, he seemed to change gears, staring at the tree bark by Canada's head. "I'm beating him, you know. Him and his 'unbeatable' Royal Navy. If you would just give in…"

Those sky blue eyes were clouded with something, be it anger or else, as they looked into Canada's. It sent shivers down Canada's spine, whatever it was, and he couldn't bear to look, as he might figure it out and understand.

There was a growl, and Canada was pulled forward and slammed back against the trunk with a jarring slam, sending stars into his vision.

"Stop that! Just stop it with all of this! Why can't you just listen to me?" America practically roared, fingers now digging into Canada's smaller shoulders. Canada took advantage of the freedom of his hands, feeling the foolish adrenaline surge up his arm and into the fist that smacked right into America's nose, making a sickening crunch.

After that, all hell broke loose.

* * *

Canada stood, though more accurately he slumped heavily on one leg, as the sight met his unshining purple eyes. It was not as though he hadn't known this was what was going to greet him upon light; the smell had been more than enough proof during the dark.

The charred wall of Canada's house stuck out against the greens and browns of the forest, chillingly and lifelessly black. Not another wall, not even another stick, stood along it.

Canada staggered forward, his unswollen eye blinking rapidly as the permanent disappearance of his house, his place which belonged to him and him alone, sunk in. Everything, from hunting trophies to handmade furniture to clothes he had sewn himself- gone.

Everything, including every last piece of France Canada had. The reality struck him hard in the throat, causing him to lose all of his air in one heartsick exhale. His nightie, which he'd held onto from the moment it left France's hands- the nice silverware, the finest thing he had- the handkerchief he had cried his tears into upon his departure from France's possession.

Gone. Canada fell to his knees, struggling for breath. France was gone, hundreds of miles away, not even the last wisps of his presence allowed to stay. He was lost, alone in a sea of himself once more, not even the lingering scent Canada liked to think still lingered in the corners of his cabin left.

A huge inhale finally filled his lungs, but it was quickly expelled in a sob. How could America do this to him? How could anyone do this to anyone else? Nations didn't last forever; who could even know if he would ever see France again?

His Papa… Another sob broke free, even as he breathed in the dust and lingering smoke of his home. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. No one was supposed to take away the safest place in the world…

"Canada? Is that you?" He knew that voice, he knew it all too well. It was the second to last voice he wanted to hear right now; in fact, he would prefer to never have to speak to him again. Why was he here, and how did it happen that he saw him in his deepest despair? An unmannerly, deep sniff came from Canada as he tried to keep in the sobs, instead breathing heavily.

"America's been here." England's statement was simple, and yet indiscernible. Was he reliving his own days with America, be they happy or sad? Or was he upset behind his façade, feeling the damage to his property? Canada just couldn't always tell with this man.

Canada slumped further, hunched over his knees as he held tightly to himself and tried to breathe normally. His sanctuary's ashes were blown into the breeze, inducing a bit of coughing that racked Canada's chest with pain.

People just didn't do this kind of thing, not in this day and age! Not civilized people, anyway. What had he done to deserve this? England's footsteps crunched charcoal as he came to stand by Canada.

"Well, this is the way America wants to play, then. Little brute." England's words surprised Canada a little, but not nearly so much as the undertone. Was that… sympathy? Could it possibly be that England felt for someone besides himself?

The empire bent down on one knee next to Canada, ignoring his hiccups that had just begun to strike. His eyes gave Canada a cursory look over, as he clicked his tongue.

"You need medical attention, especially with that eye. Can't afford to have you blind in one eye, after all; you'd hardly be a good shot then." England's hand reached out, fingers nearly touched the swollen tissue surrounding Canada's eye. However, Canada flinched back, and England stopped reaching.

"Well, come on then; no use crying over spilt milk." Standing, England offered a hand to Canada, who stared at him disbelievingly. How could England trivialize something like this? He had been struck full in the heart, left bruised and battered in the flying soot and smoke of his own home. It was practically cruel to compare it to spilt milk.

However, one of his hands reached unwillingly for England's, and even as he got a tenuous grip, he was hauled upwards, making sure to put his weight more on his left leg than his right.

He got not a single look back at him as England walked towards his horse, untethering the animal. Canada limped after him, feeling the huge bruise on his ankle more than ever. A thought kept niggling at the back of mind; was England upset only because he belonged to him? Was it nothing personal, just business?

"Go on, get up. The horse can carry both of us." That clipped, impersonal tone. He hated it; he wanted to hear the voice he'd had the luxury of hearing a few times before the revolution, the one that told stories and conveyed colorful arrays of emotion even while being a little gruff or awkward. Canada pulled himself onto the horse, feeling the strain put on his ribs and letting out a small squeak of pain.

England seemed to give no notice, climbing up behind him and putting his arms around him to grab the reins. And rather than feeling like a comforting hug after a horrible time, it just felt like a set of bones covered in flesh fencing him in.

Canada hated this England, he thought, as they rode away; but this was the only England he truly knew.

* * *

Tiny beady black eyes reflected the minimal sunlight under the cabinet as Australia hunched over, looking under it. He knew he should take care of the culprit for the nibbles in so many of the foods, but as he looked at the smooth brown fur of the mouse, he knew he just couldn't.

There had to be a way to get it out of the house, so that England would never know. More importantly, he had to do it without Ireland noticing. The woman tended to be quite vicious with vermin, swatting them down with her broom and even going so far as to break one's back with her foot.

Australia had been horrified, watching the poor thing twitch helplessly, slowly dying a painful, gasping death. He'd snapped its neck, to put it out of its misery. Sometimes, one had to take the harder role of ushering an animal out of life, rather than the more joyous and breathtaking occasion of ushering it in. He'd helped birth a foal one time, when Wales had come to visit and took him out to help with the mare.

It had been beautiful, though he supposed he would be one of the few to call it that. The foal had been covered in stuff, and the mare had lain pushing for some time, building up sweat and seeming uncomfortable. Australia supposed he would be too, if he had a baby coming out of a small hole inside of him.

But young animals aside, this mouse needed his help. Because if it was not rescued, it was sure to discovered eventually. Australia watched its nose twitch as it sniffed around under the cabinet, surely aware of its watcher. Food would be a sure way to lure it out, and then all he had to do was scoop it up and run outside with it.

Mice liked sweets. It was yet another thing Australia felt in common with them, besides being treated like unworthy creatures. But mice were cute, and amusing to watch; they deserved to live as much as the next creature, really.

Australia pulled a cooled muffin off of the rack where Ireland had left it, crumbling it up onto the floor next to the cabinet. He then perched on top of a short stool nearby. It felt rather weird, being the predator of sorts, just waiting to snatch up the unsuspecting mouse, but it was the right thing to do, he was sure of that.

Plus, it was giving him quite the adrenaline rush. Any second now, that mouse would come after the yummy muffin, and then, just like that, it would find itself outside! A nose began to show itself, pink tipped and sniffing, whiskers moving along with it. A head was reveal as well, and Australia held his breath.

Animals didn't mind him normally, and it seemed this mouse was the same, as it slowly and cautiously walked out and began to nibble on the muffin. It was then that Australia pounced, scooping up the mouse and making a dash for the door.

"Australia, did you make this mess?" He froze. It was Ireland, broom in hand as was her habit, frowning at him rather deeply. He covered the mouse with his other hand, keeping it entrapped in the small space.

"Yes, but I'm going to come right back to clean it up!" He could feel the mouse squirming around, head pushing against his hand and trying to force it up. He had to get it out of there now, before it panicked!

Even as he began to hurry towards the door again, however, Ireland stomped after him and cut him off. "No, you'll clean it up now! Don't go thinking you can just do whatever you want because England's not here! I am not letting you behave like a little brat!"

A sharp pinch struck his hand, and Australia dropped the mouse with a cry. A flare of anger went through him and he yelled at Ireland. "You made me lose the mouse!"

Ireland gave him a sharp look, turning over his hand and inspecting the bite. "Don't you yell at me; you're the foolish boy who picked up a mouse with your bare hands."

Australia's lower lip trembled, and though he still felt some anger, it was quickly turning to shame and sadness. "I just wanted to save it, cause you were going to kill it…"

"Foolish boy…" Ireland sighed, once again calling him that as she pulled him over towards the sink. "You're dripping blood on the floor; we'd better get you cleaned up."

As she dressed and wrapped the bite, Australia sniffled a little, feeling defeated. Why didn't the mouse want his help? Alright, it was true, if he were trapped in a tiny space like that, he might bite too, but what other option had he had?

"There's a reason we kill mice, Australia," Ireland said, catching his attention as she looked at him more softly than before. "They eat our food, they spread disease, and even if you take them outside, they find their way back in. Mice are just dirty creatures."

Australia's head hung. He didn't want to believe that mice should be killed, but he had to admit that every time he released them outside, it was only so long until most of them came back. And they did poop a lot of places and make food inedible. Ireland might have a point. Not all animals were on the same level, perhaps.

"Anyway, if I see you trying to save a mouse again, I'll have to tan your hide. I'll not let you grow up poorly behaved." Ireland's words weren't an idle threat, Australia knew, but he also knew that 'tan your hide' equated a few swats on the behind with her bare hand. Not exactly terrifying. Ireland was much softer with punishments than England was.

"Alright…" Australia knew better than to test his boundaries, especially with the kinder caretaker. He did _not_ want her to turn on him, or go back to ignoring him. His heart gave a twinge though, as he thought of those poor mice.

Little creatures didn't deserve to have their lives so controlled by others, but what could he do?

* * *

Canada didn't like his one room shack.

More specifically, he didn't like how cold it was, and how he couldn't take off his fur coat at all. Also, he didn't like that he had to wait to continue construction on his new home. But what he most didn't like, unrelated to his shack, he supposed, was America.

He couldn't help but give a grim smile, remembering their previous battles, both of which he won. England was more sparing with information on the rest of the battles, so he didn't know if he could be considered the winning side or not, but he had shown his strength, strength he had barely known he had.

America was stronger, and older, and bigger, but he had sent him running, all by himself.

It was a glorifying feeling, taking all pictures of himself during the battle and turning them into greater images than they might have really been. He had kicked America's derriere, and there was no reason not to feel great about that!

The strangest thing had been how unwilling America had been to look him in the eyes, however. He'd glared once, gaze not even really settling on Canada's face, and in the second battle his glare hadn't even directed itself anywhere near Canada. It was only the disbelieving stare at being defeated that connected one time, during the most recent battle.

Was America ashamed of his actions, or embarrassed by being defeated by his smaller, weaker brother? Canada might never know. Besides, who really cared what that moron thought, unless it dissuaded him from his goals of conquering Canada.

Never would the charred remains of his home fade from Canada's memory, that much he was sure of.

/AN/ Well, I know it's been forever since I updated… roughly a month, in fact. But goodness gracious, college is hard work! That, and of course I have to give some thought to where I'm going with this. Don't want it to turn into a ramble-o-thon.

Okay, history! Nothing is really going on for Australia historically speaking during this time period, but obviously there is a good deal going on in Canada! The Battle of York (which is present day Toronto), which was on April 27, ended in the Americans looting and burning the city, destroying important buildings entirely, before having to leave. Now, this wasn't considered civilized behavior in this time period, so this was a low blow to the Canadians and British.

Next, there were several battles and such, including the American capture of Fort George, the Battle of Stoney Creek between British soldiers and Americans (win for the Brits and major turning point for Upper Canada), various raids, The Battle of Lake Erie (win for the Americans against British ships), and the Battle of the Thames, which was also an American win, and during which the Indian leader Tecumseh was killed.


	18. Chapter 18

This should be an interesting chapter, as the leash is finally off! Enjoy!

Also, there was a bit of a mistake with the last chapter's final AN: I didn't mention the Battle of Chateaugay or the Battle of Chrysler's Farm, which were both battles won by native Canadian forces, along with their allies. The rest of the battles, I believe, involved British soldiers by contrast, hence I decided to not really have Canada there.

Of course, I can't say with absolute certainty which battles involved native Canadians and which only involved the British soldiers, but I am doing my best to separate them.

I don't own Hetalia! end/AN/

Nails were funny things, Australia mused, examining his in great detail. There was the white edge, a little bit stained with work, and the pink body, and the bit of skin that overlapped the base of it. Human nails didn't seem like anything compared to claws, but they could hurt pretty badly.

As England's face was sure to show over the next few days.

"I don't give a bloody rat's arse! Just give me a damn day to go home, you bastard!" Ireland's shrieks at England seemed near desperate to Australia, as England clutched his face, shielding the damage done from prying eyes.

"You bloody wench, how dare you touch me!" England was seething, England was furious- but he wasn't raising a hand against her. Not yet anyway. "I come home for the first time in a long time, and this is the bloody greeting I get?"

"No one wants you home! Neither of us needs you!" Ireland's voice was shrill, ruining the normally lyrical rhythm of her speech. Australia preferred her normal voice, but there wasn't much he could do about the little spat between the two now. He would have to be a crazy man to step in between them, like an idiot trying to separate rabid dogs with his bare hands.

"You couldn't survive without me! Both of you would wither and suffer and eventually be consigned to the insignificant footnotes of history! There is not a way on this earth that either of you could stand on your own two feet sufficiently!" England practically roared at Ireland, hands clenching and unclenching, clearly indecisive as to whether or not they were going to pummel the poor woman in front of them.

"I just want to go home!" Ireland's anger may have been cowed by England's fury, but her desperation to see her green hills once again was too strong for that. And Australia could hardly blame her. Canada had been the same way, occasionally telling him, with a faraway look in his eyes, about the natural beauties of his home and the wonderful animals that inhabited it.

If he could remember a better place, he was sure he would want to go back to it too. Maybe his old home was better; England had always told him it was a wasteland though. It was hard to know whether to trust England, on occasion, as he seemed to know so much, but he was so wrong about Canada and other things.

"And when do you expect to go home, with that kind of behavior?" England sneered at Ireland, seemingly trying to look down upon her even though they were about the same height. Ireland stamped her foot, spitting at him tearfully, "I hate you, we both hate you, _everyone_ hates you, you bastard!"

Australia could feel himself shrinking into his chair at being included in the hating of England. The last thing he wanted was for England to believe Ireland and get mad at him. Whether or not it was true, he couldn't say, though.

"One doesn't run an empire to be liked," England retorted with a roll of his eyes. He turned to leave, apparently done with arguing with Ireland. "Get yourself in line, or I _will_ put you in line!"

As Ireland screamed after him, Australia covered his ears and disappeared into his room. Did he hate England? Maybe in the old days, he could have said no or yes, but now there was a longing to be noticed for good things, to be- dare he say it- liked by England. Maybe it had always been there, however it grew stronger as time went on and he was denied things like hugs and hair ruffles, like Canada used to do.

Maybe it would change. Or, who was he kidding, maybe he would get out of here before it got worse.

* * *

"Kunikio…" Canada moaned, as he felt a wet tongue coat his exposed toes. He pulled them back under the blanket, wondering how they'd become uncovered, and more importantly, what Kujika had done with his stockings.

It was early in the morning, barely light, but it was clear he wasn't going to fall asleep again anytime soon. Giving a great sigh, he pushed off the covers and got out of bed. Fingers running through his tousled hair, he yawned, looking around. Good. Kubatu hadn't messed anything up looking for food again.

Of course, to be fair to Kugigi, he wasn't normally the type of bear to make a mess; just when he felt a little impish. Then he would be a handful. But he was still worth keeping around, undoubtedly, being the only one who Canada could truly trust on this whole continent. No one knew him quite the same way, and it was the bear's warm body that cuddled up with him every night.

"Breakfast, I suppose…" he murmured, as though Kuta had asked what he was going to do next. He might as well have, with the way he was looking at him expectantly. "You're pretty lucky, you know. Most bears do their own hunting."

Kuhana just pushed against his leg impatiently as he got the dried meat out; it was something he had learned from the Indians. It was absolutely invaluable in preparing for winter; also, since he did often take down big game, it helped him not waste the meat he was not able to eat immediately.

As he gave the large strips to Kuyayo, and the little bear tore into them greedily, he got to thinking, once again. Would France be alright? He had been at war for so long. What if he had exhausted his troops, or simply become outmatched? What if, supposing he lost, he was divided among the winners?

Things were not the same as they used to be, Canada knew; there was a sort of code that countries tried to follow nowadays. He didn't understand all of it, honestly, but he knew- or at least hoped- that France would be treated humanely.

He was just about to help himself to breakfast, and get off of the topic of France, when there was a knock at the door. Canada jerked into action, grabbing his musket, and dashing to the door. There was no time, none at all, to change into uniform or anything of the sort; instead, his night shift fluttered around his calves as he dashed towards the door.

"Who is it?" There was a moment, which felt like much more, before a voice dispelled the nervous tension Canada hadn't realized was in his muscles.

"It's England, just open the door, will you?" Canada unlatched the door, allowing England in. The empire looked as though he had just taken a long horse-ride, and that was probably the case. If Canada dared to lean out behind England and look, he was sure he would see a horse.

"Hello," Canada said rather softly, feeling any of the strong willed power inside of him dissipate. England wasn't here to hurt him, unlike America. He didn't need to fight. Looking him up and down, however, the empire frowned at him.

"Why on earth aren't you dressed? Do you know how late it is?" Canada flushed, staring down at his naked toes. Not even wearing stockings, what a way to present himself…

"I-I'll go get dressed…" As Canada turned to go, however, England grabbed his shoulder.

"Never mind that. I have important news." England's tone seemed to catch Canada's ear, and his heart gave a small, nervous flip. What kind of news was more important than proper attire? Clasping his hands together, Canada looked to England, giving a timid, "News?"

He didn't get a whole lot of it, honestly. He was a whole continent away from most of the action, though of course, it wasn't as though his own continent wasn't hopping with war energy. It was just that both continents influenced his country, touched his life each in their own ways. It was hard sometimes not knowing what would become of those dear to him.

"We have negotiated a treaty. The war is over." The words inflated Canada's heart, and he felt almost giddy for a moment before he realized he didn't know which war England was talking about. Had his safety been procured, or was the continent of Europe temporarily at peace?

"Of course," England said, before Canada could question, "you do know what this means, don't you?" Not an easy one to answer, and for a moment Canada struggled for one, before weakly offering, "Peace?"

"Yes, but more importantly, it means we can finally focus on stamping out this America problem. Teach that little devil that he should stay within his own bloody borders…" England was frowning, despite the fact he obviously thought this was good news. Internally sighing, Canada couldn't be surprised. Though, at least now he knew that America wasn't the one who had signed the treaty.

Though this meant it was France! Canada's whole being was struck with a jolt of realization, and he turned hungrily to England for more information. "France is alive? He's alright?"

If he had been broken down into a tiny country with no power, Canada didn't know if he'd ever see him again – or if he would even survive. He could break out in a fresh revolution, this one worse that the last. Though, that would be quite a feat to accomplish.

"Yes, yes, he's bloody alive, the bastard. Doesn't deserve to be, of course, and would probably try it again if he got the chance, and get his lecherous hands all over my small territories, but bloody Seychelles and the rest are mine now and he should just be satisfied with the way things are, the bloody frog!" England's torrent of malcontent washed over Canada, but he was filled with happiness in spite of it.

France was alive! He could send him a letter, he could probably even arrange to see him once again! The warm touch of his papa was something he hadn't felt in so long he was afraid it was a vanished memory, and the very thought of it made him feel an overwhelming joy in his chest. His papa would know he had not forgotten, and he would know his papa had not forgotten him.

But that would probably have to be after this business with America was finished, he realized with a deflating spirit. He felt anger begin to flicker in his chest, as he saw America as the obstacle between him and his papa. Why was America such an idiot anyway? So greedy, so selfish… He always wanted more, especially when it wasn't his to take.

"In any case, we will be prepared for America. This war can't last much longer." England readjusted his coat self-importantly, as though he were the single force bringing about peace in the world. Canada didn't know everything about the continental war, but he was vaguely aware of there being allies working with England to defeat France.

"That's good," Canada said softly, as he thought of what peace could be. Maybe he would be able to finally sleep under a solid roof; he would be able to work more on his cabin if he wasn't engaged in a war. And he wouldn't have to worry about it being burned to the ground once again.

"I will be staying here for now; I suppose my attention is very much needed here." England's words sounded almost as though they were reprimanding Canada for not winning the war already, but surely he knew that he'd had the disadvantage, and had to be on the defensive a lot. There was no way he could win a war like this without a lot of support from England, however little he liked to admit it.

"Alright. The bed has a trundle; you can have the top," Canada said mildly; it was simply how it would have to be. He was just grateful he'd decided to have a trundle, even if it meant a smaller amount of space for himself. Being the younger, it was his place to take.

England gave some noise that sounded like assent, as he took in the shack with a wrinkle of his nose. Canada couldn't blame him; he didn't like it much either. He just hoped that there wouldn't be any conflicts from sharing such a small living space…

* * *

England was gone.

And Ireland had apparently deserted the house, leaving the message that she wasn't 'leaving the damn kingdom' and just had 'some damn things to take care of.' It was okay though, because it wasn't like Australia was afraid of being alone or anything.

Really, he wasn't. He just enjoyed hiding under the couch and watching for foreign feet. Anything other than the simple shoes of Ireland or the buckled boots of England was a bad sign; though, come to think of it, he didn't really want to see England either. If the empire caught him hiding under the couch again, he was sure to punish him, because 'only filthy heathens hide themselves like animals.'

The door opened! The shuffle of shoes sounded on the foyer, none too far away, as the door closed once again. Australia was tense, easing towards the edge of the couch to get a better view. Who could have come? Ireland surely would not be back so soon, and England the same. Who would break into England's house?

"Hello? Is anyone here?" The soft Gaelic twist on the words caused Australia's heart to jump in surprise. It couldn't be… Could it? As the coal dust coated shoes showed up in front of him, however, he didn't give much more time to thought.

"Wales! It's me, it's Australia!" The speed with which he jumped out from under the couch seemed to startle the older nation, who put a hand to his heart as the wide eyed expression began to leave his face.

"Well, there you are. How are you? Who else is home?" Wales looked down on Australia for a moment with a slight smile, before looking around the room as though he might spot another nation. Australia frowned, and immediately began to smile to try and catch his attention once again.

"Nobody's home but me. England left for somewhere, and Ireland left to go do stuff," he related, and was pleased when once again Wales' hazel eyes rested on him. The Welsh nation raised his eyebrows, as though this weren't quite the situation he'd expected.

"Hm… Well, I suppose that's just the way things are." He ruffled Australia's hair, starting to smile wider. "And how have you been? You didn't answer the first time I asked."

"I'm fine, thank you." England would have been proud, or at least Australia hoped so. "I have to read a lot though. See-" and here he broke off a moment to get his book, "On this page there's all this stuff about English history, and I have to learn it all! I hate history!"

"Sometimes history is important, like remembering your past and heroes. You don't want to ever forget what makes you special," Wales said, looking down on him thoughtfully, as though he were remembering his own past.

"I know…" To be honest, he still remembered when Wales had said that all those years ago. It really had been some time since he saw him, come to think of it. Had he stayed true to the puzzling words that Wales had told him?

"But…" He started to say it, then bit it back. How could he explain to Wales that his first people were dark skinned savages, who saw fit not to dress properly or speak the King's English? However, Wales' eyebrows lifted, and he looked down on Australia with an air of not trusting him as much.

"But what? Your culture is what makes you, you." There was to be no difference between cultures, no qualifications for keeping aspects, it seemed, to Wales. Australia gulped, as he felt the words being squeezed out of him like some sort of animal being forced to regurgitate through being crushed.

"W-well… Everything that belongs to me, all my culture without England, is just savages," he explained, rather timidly compared to his usual exuberant tone around guests he liked. Wales just stared at him for a moment, indiscernibly.

"What makes you say that?" Wales finally asked, though his expression seemed darker, more dangerous if the wrong answer was given. Australia reminded himself he was not afraid, Wales was nice- although maybe he was just a different flavor of England that seemed pleasant at first, but changed to bitter upon any long amount of contact.

"E-England said my culture is just savagery, c-cause I just used to run naked and love outside and stuff…" Australia imparted this with eyes downcast; Wales' thick, thick eyebrows were too reminiscent of England at the moment, as the inward ends turned down far too sharply for Australia's taste.

But Wales didn't say anything back immediately; instead, he seemed to be thinking on just how wrong Australia was, as he tended to be. Biting his lip, Australia could feel tears start well up, as he could practically feel the judging, harsh gaze being put upon him, though he didn't dare look up to see it. Wales hated him too; he knew what he really was, and how England must constantly put him straight because of his nature.

Then, a hand- Australia tensed, feeling the digits encase his shoulder. He looked up, to see Wales looking down on him, with a look that might be some sort of baffled kindness. For a moment, Wales stumbled for words.

"I… I might not understand all of your culture. But I was once a savage too; I ran naked, I loved outdoors, and fought like hell against the invasion. I might have been 'civilized', but that doesn't mean they can ever take that away from me. And they can't take it away from you either, you understand?"

Hazel eyes met brown, and Australia saw pain, at injustice and being stifled, the same pain he felt so much so often. And then he was enveloped in Wales' arms, and found himself hugging back.

He was not the only savage trapped in stiff and starched clothes.

* * *

America was here.

Not only could Canada feel it in every bone, he knew of it through observation. The air smelled of ammunition, used to take Fort Erie and get a good shot at his position. However, England stood simmering by his side, ready to take America at any time.

"There he is, that bastard," England murmured, as he carefully took aim with his musket. A single shot flew, and America jumped, looking around wildly. He didn't see them, Canada realized, and at that he felt a bit better, lining up his shot at his turncoat brother. He hoped it crippled him, and put this war to an end already.

However, before he could shoot, America took cover, no longer leaving himself open. Canada couldn't waste his shot now, and he couldn't help but feel frustrated. It wasn't that he was bad at fighting and had been hoping for an easy win; it was, rather, that he was decent at fighting but so was America, and if he were injured he didn't know where this would go.

Yes, England was here, but maybe America was somehow better. Maybe England was weakened by his continental war; it had to take a lot out of a nation. Though, of course, America's war with the pirates seemed to have only made his navy stronger…

A shot whizzed by Canada's head, and he was brought back to reality. A chill struck him, as shock at how close he'd come to being hit set in. Good lord, he almost died, didn't he? England roughly pulled him back, as he rather hastily strode towards the open field beyond.

"We have no time for this nonsense- we can't expect to snipe him out this way. He must face us in an ordinary fashion, and I have no doubt he will honor the traditions of war." Were they retreating, in some small way? Was America forcing them back? Canada hoped not. It would be a bad sign for such an early semi-retreat on their part.

But according to England's words, he saw America emerge from the woods, musket surely loaded and pointed towards them. Before the enemy nation could get a shot in, England had fired, missing, but immediately affixing his bayonet to his musket.

"He's poorly trained! Take a couple shots and then go in for the kill!" England charged forward, leaving Canada behind to aim at America's grey uniform. Which, now that he thought about it, was strange; didn't America usually wear blue?

A shot that seemed to hit; Canada's heart jumped, with- was it fright? Had he really hurt America? But no, the irrepressible nation seemed to have only been glanced off of, damaging merely the uniform. A curse entered his ears as he took reloaded his gun, and he looked over to see England had hit a wide patch of tall grass.

Now America took aim at his former master, and Canada felt all breath leaving his body in a great exhale. Good lord, was he going to kill him? The burst of sound struck his ears as the shot was taken, but England threw himself to the ground, avoiding the possibly fatal bullet.

"Shoot him, damnit! He's defenseless!" England's command went straight to Canada's hands, as he pointed his gun at his former brother. He didn't want to think; he couldn't try to wrap his brain around the near death of England, and the mixed emotions it had already aroused, nor did he want to feel anything about the end of America.

The bang of the bullet sent a shockwave through his body, and he saw where it went- blood. He had struck! Feeling sick, or excited, he couldn't tell, he stood dumbly until England yelled at him to use his bayonet.

England had been right; America was weak, and ill-trained. This would be easy, this would be simple, it would finally be over.

The empire reached America, swinging at his head with practiced ease. Nothing could stop them- a chinking clunk noise was made, as America reacted quickly and blocked England with his musket. So perhaps the blood dripping from the side of his head had not been nearly so important as Canada had hoped, but it was something, at least.

Canada raced towards the fighting pair, avoiding the large grassy area, unlike England. It took a minute or two to do so, but he didn't want to risk being a sitting duck if America should somehow overtake England.

Helping was the only option at this point; to run would be stupid, to hold back would be cowardly. And Canada was _not_ a coward. He swung his bayonet at America's head, avoiding England's crown.

And he was blocked! America not only blocked him, he kicked England in the gut and sent him tumbling. Suddenly, Canada felt alone, forced to face a strong foe without the experienced company of England. While the empire gasped for breath, Canada's hands were feeling shaky on his musket; could he block America?

Now was not the time to think- America swung, Canada desperately tried to block, but- a tearing noise, and the horrible split of flesh from flesh, became Canada's awareness. He couldn't breathe, good lord, he couldn't breathe! Pain screamed through the flesh in his abdomen, as the musket fell from his grip.

Shouting was in the background; but Canada's hands shakily guided themselves to the wound, pressing against the damp uniform as he gasped noiselessly. Good lord, he was going to die! His knees were starting to give way, as his head seemed to just open up and let out all that extra weight. Where- what was he doing?

Rough hands seized his shoulder and clean side, forcing him to walk in the direction they pulled him in. He didn't see; all his senses were focused on the increasing slick surface beneath his hands. He smelled of sweat, but there was another scent he was not nearly so familiar with. He had nothing in his head; where was he?

He was suddenly scratched violently across the face, and he let out a startled yelp; he was in a forest, he was bleeding, oh lord, he was bleeding... "Pay attention! Don't you dare slip away on me!"

England. England was here; he was taking him somewhere else. Were his guts falling out? Was it so bad that England thought he was going to die? Canada tried to cry, as the tears were already falling out, but every breath seemed to send a searing jolt through the wound, so he just whimpered quietly.

"It's alright, we're almost there; look, there's your little shanty, right up ahead," England murmured in his ear, in an almost comforting way. The fingers on him tightened, Canada noticed, in a peripheral kind of way.

Not a lot could distract him from the wound that was letting his life blood all over his uniform. In vision that was vaguely surreal, he saw that there was indeed his tiny home up ahead. Would he be safe? Had America followed? Was he going to die?

He wanted France. Those hands gently caring for him, that presence calming his troubled soul… He even went so far as to pretend the body forcing him along was indeed his beloved Papa, who would wrap him up and feed him something to ease his pain.

Released momentarily, Canada heard the door open, and suddenly found himself conveyed into his home. Not a moment sooner than he'd gotten the chance to recognize the place, England tore at his clothes, ridding him of them in a frightfully fast and practiced manner. Had he not been wounded, Canada might have been very much scared.

"Lie down; Don't give me those blank eyes, pay attention!" England's words seemed to barely penetrate, and just as Canada realized he'd been told to lie down, he was already being pushed down onto the bed.

"Drink this," England commanded, shoving a flask in his face. Canada's fingers gripped the container, and he began to drink it, only to cough up the hard alcohol within. And that caused a spasm through his abdomen, which made him groan in pain. England just tipped the flask into his mouth once again, and he managed to choke it down. He'd only ever had sips of wine from his Papa's wineglass; this was something unexperienced.

"Can't wait for it to kick in," came the murmur, and that was when the pain started afresh.

* * *

If he could, he'd send a wish from a star to Canada right now, Australia was sure of that. But as far as he could tell, one couldn't send someone a wish; and if Canada didn't know to wish on shooting stars, then there was nothing he could do to help him.

From what Australia understood, Canada was involved in a war with America, because, as England put it, 'America was a bloody idiot'. Now, he didn't know this America, really, but he couldn't help but think anyone who wanted to hurt Canada really was pretty stupid and mean. Canada was the best person he had ever known, right up there with Wales and Scotland, and even Ireland. Who would want to hurt somebody who was nice?

It was like kicking a puppy. It was cruel, and you didn't even get anything out of it unless you were evil and it felt good. Which was impossible to for Australia to understand; animals were way better than people most of the time. They only bite cause they're scared, not cause they're mean.

He was jolted out of his thoughts, however, by a knock on the door. Not pondering at all who could be there, he went and swung it open, hoping that it wasn't England.

And it wasn't.

"Bonjour, little one; I must speak to Angleterre, so if you would be so kind as to direct me to him…"

He was tall, he was blonde, he had a beard… And he was no one Australia had ever seen before. The smile appeared on his face almost instantly. This newcomer probably had no idea he was a savage! If he was good, maybe he would be happy with him!

"I'm Australia! You can come in. But Unglahtear isn't here; he could be back later, though." Anything to keep this new, friendly person here. And he was rewarded with a smile, a really pretty, nice smile. The stranger came in, surveying the room.

"Ah, I see he's keeping things the same as always; he probably hasn't changed anything in the last thirty years…" Australia was astounded at how well the newcomer knew England, even though he obviously didn't know his name.

"He hasn't changed anything in thirty years! How did you know?" There was a chuckle, delightful and worldly-wise. The stranger just looked around, tossing his hair.

"Please; I've known Angleterre longer than you've been alive." How could he know him so long and still get his name wrong? It fascinated Australia to no end. He seized the newcomer's hand, dragging him into the parlor.

Now, if he was entertaining a guest, then he had to get something tasty to keep him here. He smiled over at the guest in what he supposed was a very charming and likeable grin, holding up a finger.

"One minute, I'll go get something to eat."

He looked earnestly to make sure the guest was alright with it, and he got a nod, with a twinkle in the eye. Fleeing from the room, Australia beamed. He was doing very well in retaining his very own guest! Maybe the charming stranger would even want to stay the night, if he was good enough!

It only took a moment to find biscuits that Wales had been kind enough to bake for him when he came over; the nation had made a habit of checking on him every so often, since no one was around to watch him, but Wales also couldn't stay with him. It was a shame, really; he seemed like he'd make a really fun parent/caregiver type of person.

As Australia shuffled back in, he felt a new wave of delight when he saw that the friendly stranger was still there. Good! His hair was so pretty, his eyes were so bright, and nobody could look nicer, not even Wales.

"Here's some biscuits," Australia said, offering them on a platter to the stranger. The smile he got back made his skin tingle; the attention was just amazing. And he had him all to himself.

"Ah, merci beaucoup, Australia," the stranger replied, reaching out to take one, before hesitating. Strangely enough, he looked apprehensive. "Hm…I don't suppose England made these?"

"No! Wales made them for me," Australia was quick to explain, as he could understand not liking England's cooking. For some reason, Canada seemed to have a dislike of it as well, but none of England's siblings had ever complained about it.

The corners of the stranger's mouth curved up once again, and he took a bite out of the biscuit. Australia watched him chew quietly for a moment, before suddenly realizing something. He had no idea what this man's name was.

"What's your name?" There was no reason to dance around the question in Australia's mind, so he was a little surprised when his guest laughed. Was he supposed to know this man's name? Had they met before, back when he first started living with England?

"I'm sorry, where are my manners? I'm France, the magnificent country across the Channel."

Wait… That was a familiar na- France! The ever-so-important-to-Canada France! Australia saw him with new eyes. This was the man had pined after, this was the man England hated! And maybe, just maybe, he could see why. He _was_ way better looking than England, and much less gruff.

Though he did have a beard, which was funny-looking.

"Canada talked about you all the time!" Australia burst out, causing France to look slightly stunned. Blue eyes showed momentary confusion, as he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked over at Australia.

"Canada, he talked about me? It's been some time…" The sentence trailed off, and France glanced over the embroidered pillow off to Australia's left. Australia, however, was elated. Now he could tell France to go help Canada, because he remembered Canada too!

"Yes! He needs you right now, cause he's in a war with America and England's not very nice all the time," he hastily explained, eyes beginning to shine with excitement. Canada would finally know that he hadn't been forgotten by Australia! France could take a message, and maybe then Canada would come home again!

"But hasn't he moved on by now? It's been decades, and he's so young-" Australia was quick to correct France, not even letting him finish speaking. He wasn't letting the opportunity of a lifetime slip through his fingers!

"No! He misses you so much! He always wants to see you, cause you're like his dad or something!" Nothing had sent the blood racing through Australia's veins like this in some time. He could do something real, like helping animals and digging to plant gardens were real! Not like reading stuffy old books and memorizing certain facts! Canada would be reunited with France, and all would be well.

"I-I… I can't go over there. I couldn't even if England and I were on good terms… I am exhausted, my body is wracked with pains; little one, I could be no help to anyone." The words were like cold water on the fire of Australia's excitement, but not enough to put it out. He pressed on.

"But you have to! Canada just needs you to hold him tight from scary things! You don't have to be strong, just go, he needs you," Australia said, reaching across and seizing France's hands with his own, trying to channel the urgency of the situation to France through body contact.

However, the elder nation ripped his hands away, standing abruptly. He refused to make eye contact as he said, "I have to leave now, tell Angleterre I will be back another time. Business can wait until then."

And he strode towards the door, leaving Australia to follow him and beg him to go to Canada. "He needs you! You can't leave him alone, he's so sad without me! Please, just go!"

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Australia," France murmured, as he exited, shutting the door behind himself. Australia immediately wrenched the door open, but somehow France was already at his carriage, climbing in.

"Wait! Just wait!" Australia shrieked, running towards the carriage. He couldn't let him slip away, not after what he knew this man meant to Canada! But the door was shut, the driver was getting the horses moving, it was too late-

"No! You can't do this!" Yelling after the carriage felt better than just standing there as it disappeared, but even then, Australia knew it was hopeless. What was wrong with this France man? Wasn't he supposed to care about Canada?

Australia bitterly kicked a stone across the road, feeling the anger warm his blood. What a monstrous bloody toad! And that accent was absolutely ridiculous, not nearly as nice and comforting as Canada's! Who cared about him anyway, with his funny looking face and strange words that Australia didn't understand?

He could rot in hell!

* * *

It was still sore. Even as Canada traced the wound beneath his uniform, he knew that it would not fade too quickly. But it would hardly interfere with his duties, and it was a good thing; America was advancing, and he and England _must_ face off with him. There was no time for being gentle with his body.

The light of the day was still there, but Canada knew it couldn't hold for more than a few more hours. The air was sticky on his skin, and his uniform clung uncomfortably to his body. If these were normal, peaceful circumstances, he would have changed, or found same way to relieve himself. As it was, he must stay, eyes trained on the horizon.

The land and attention hungry nation that was formerly his brother would have to show up soon, where they would halt his greedy rampage. A whisper of a breeze tickled Canada's ear, as it teased him with thoughts of cool comfort; but now was a time to focus. Life and country, intertwined in the same, were on the line. He could never let America do what he had done to him before again.

England's eyes sharply focused ahead, and with a sharp jab, he brought Canada's attention to the movement none too far from them. It was America, his blues eyes flashing in the light of day. Canada's grip tightened on his musket, and he knew, he wasn't going to be injured and forced out this time; America would taste either the cold metal of his bayonet or a shot to the face.

Marching forward, the time for playing dodge and shoot was nonexistent; England fired a shot, and America fired one in return. As they were both reloading, Canada was closing the distance between them rapidly.

It seemed to hit America like a slap in the face that there was no time for another shot, as England was already on Canada's heels; his bayonet was affixed in lightning time. But this was Canada's fight, his country, his very self to protect, and he would not give America a chance to get the first swing or jab in!

The swing clipped America's hair, causing a startled gasp to escape from him, as though he could feel it. Then he yelled, going for Canada's gut with the butt of his musket. This time, Canada wasn't getting put out of the fight, however, and he blocked it with his own musket, sending a jarring jolt up his arms.

Was America stronger? There was no doubt, as he was forcing Canada back already. But who was the angrier entity? That was the determining factor, and Canada smashed his musket forward, sending America stumbling towards the direction he'd come from.

Then the blood showed up in the fight, as England expertly slashed at America's arm, cutting right through the cloth and a good way into the flesh. Had Canada liked America, or even respected him, he might have thought him brave for not screaming or howling in pain. However, now his tough response was only an annoyance, a sign that this would last longer than necessary.

A bayonet made a beeline for Canada's gut, but he managed to only get his uniform clipped, which he knew would be a pain to sew up later, but now was not the time to think of the mundane. He almost made a swing at America, but then England was in the way, taking over the battle. That didn't stop Canada from finding his nook, however, and as America took a layer of England's skin off of his cheek, he received a bayonet wound in the thigh.

It only glanced him, but the wind was knocked out of Canada as he received a musket butt to his stomach in retaliation. He didn't want to, but lord, it hurt, and he went down, wheezing and clutching his abdomen.

Was he this weak, to cave at one blow? Canada's hand pushed against the dirt determinedly, as he forced himself onto one knee still gasping for breath.

He saw it, but not in enough time to do anything: Red covered his vision, agonizing, screaming, tortured red. He faintly heard the cry of, "You bastard!" over his own cries, as the blood ran through the fingers clutched over his eye. But there was no running this time, there could be no running!

His remaining sight told him that England was fighting like a madman, even in the failing light. Never had he been so awed by England as when he stuck America right in the gut, and those blue eyes widened in horror, as though he'd never received such an injury before, or had received it in exactly such a manner the first time.

"E-England…" he gasped, and there was stillness. It was as though England had forgotten what to do, as though all the centuries of warfare had not prepared him for this. Canada swallowed back the waves of pain, standing up.

"If you don't like it, you should have thought of that before," he murmured, raising his musket to swing at America's head. However, America reacted, pulling back quickly and out of the way. England seemed to snap out of it, agreeing with Canada. "He's bloody well right, and you should have kept your arse out of my colony!"

"You were the one being an ass!" America gasped, glaring at them both now and swinging his bayonet at England's head. Another miss, however, and the darkness was growing. Soon they would just be grappling in the dark and praying they find the other and claw his throat out.

"You little snot of a country, how dare you stand up against me this way! I am an empire, I am the stronger, I am the _better_! You should have waited until it was sorted out, after the Continental War!" England snarled at America, hitting him and getting rewarded with a cry of pain.

America had lost his gun in tripping, Canada realized. He was defenseless. Could he attack an unarmed opponent? Maybe he could…

"You're so high and mighty, you think you're better, but you're not! You're just a bastard who got the better of everyone by luck!" America was angry, as though he, the attacker, could be justified in feeling anger at the state of things. Ha! He had brought it on himself, he deserved every bit of pain he got!

But he had his fingers on his gun again, and Canada had missed his chance, though whether through being foolish or appropriately merciful, he couldn't say. He made a jab for his shoulder, but it missed.

"Hardly, I've worked for years to be the way I am! You think you can just automatically reach a high status with other nations, but relationships take years to mold, and you refuse to accept it!" England slashed America across the forehead, or at least Canada was pretty sure he did, what with the cry and the general direction of the swing. He was pretty much relying on the light of the moon at this point.

Blood and slice and flesh and cut… War was so rough on the body. America had to give up soon, he was being beaten soundly. The wheezing was clear in the night air, the gasping breaths of a person in pain. But America was a determined nation, shouting defiance instead of whispering surrender.

"I won't let you control me, no matter how much older you are! I didn't let you do it then, and I won't let you do it now!" It sounded like he was desperate, words bursting out past his teeth in an almost tearful tone. Canada felt a weird twinge; something was relatable here- but no, he shoved down the feeling quickly. He and America had little in common in way of personality, and he preferred to stay in that line of thought.

"I will hack you to pieces if you do not leave this instant, do you understand?" England's voice had gotten colder, and it made Canada want to shrink away from him and disappear; it wasn't as though it would have been too hard to do. England would probably forget or think he'd had to leave due to injury. His hand was still pressed against his eye, and the bleeding seemed to have stopped, but England probably didn't realize that.

A sudden gasp startled Canada, and he was reminded to pay attention to the battle. England was in pain, obviously, from what little Canada could see of his slightly hunched form, but what he did next scared Canada.

Roaring, England went after America, voice every single curse word and threat known to the English language. There was shuffling, there were running feet, and quite suddenly, Canada was alone. Was the battle… over?

He didn't dare hope so, on guard and peering out into the night. What if England fell and hurt himself, and then America came back to finish Canada off? America would win, and it would all be over, and quite painfully so. Canada wasn't a fan of pain, though he would hardly say it made him cower in his boots.

The sound of a snapping twig, grass rustling underfoot! Canada whirled around, ready to strike.

"Don't attack me, you clod!" Well, England was hardly in a good mood, but at least it was him. Canada relaxed, grip loosening on his musket. The battle must be over. "Where's America?"

There was a boom, and Canada felt it reverberate in the hollow space of his chest. It sounded as though England were being smug in the darkness, as he replied, "Destroying supplies and getting the hell out of here. We can't pursue him; We're in no state to do so. But, victory is ours."

Not only was it victory, it was 'ours', not 'mine', in England's statement. Canada beamed, even as it stretched the skin around his eye painfully. England patted him on the arm, saying, "We must go. I don't want you to be half-blind, you'd hardly be a good shot then."

Canada accepted it as caring about him, and they both staggered off the battlefield. He could only hope that it would teach America to stay away already…

* * *

Normally, he wouldn't be here. This was England's attack, and he didn't generally get involved with attacks, mainly defense. But England had insisted he come, saying he 'deserved this' and such, which was really only causing Canada's nerves to fray a little bit.

He didn't want him to kill America or something, did he? Or was this a bitter lesson in how to fight properly? England's lessons could be cruel sometimes, as he'd proven while Canada had lived with him and Australia.

The air was warm, and Canada nervously looked around. This was America's _capital_; the fighting had allowed them to get here. It was strange, though; it had no strategic value at all, and they had to go out of their way to take it. Normally, England seemed to be focused on the cold hard strategy of things, rather than emotions.

But there was no denying there was a raging, passionate heart beneath that prickly exterior. How else could he have still not gotten over America's breaking away? England was far from heartless; it was just that his heart was distant and sort of deaf to those around it. That was what Canada preferred to think, anyhow.

The beautiful white building stood before them. Here was where America's work took place; he didn't live here. His boss also lived here, though of course, he had fled. And with good reason, the way England was eyeing the place. It was as though he were hungry for vengeance, for this whole war, the way he stared at the structure with cold anger in his eyes.

He also held a torch, which he extended towards Canada.

"Light it. We'll see how he likes it, having his things destroyed." Canada was hesitant at first, taking it and advancing towards the building. Could he really do this revenge thing? America may have hurt him, but he did long for peace. This might only further ignite things between them.

Then the burned out shell of his home entered his mind, and he felt a hardening fury in his gut. Yes, America deserved this. The White House was one of his most important buildings, and he had taken so much from Canada. He should be the one breathing in ashes and staring desolately at the remains of his sweat and hard work.

Canada entered, lighting the curtains and a couple of paintings. Then he lit the rug, and ran out of the building. The smell of smoke, once so unwelcome and despair-inducing in himself, caused a strange reaction. His mouth stretched out, corners lifting upwards as his heart began to beat faster and feel lighter.

Let the bastard take that, and know that he wouldn't take something like what he'd done to him ever again, not from anyone! England's eyes reflected the glowing blaze, and his brow was crinkled as he stared at it, face looking like a parent who has just dealt justice to a child they felt particularly deserved it.

England was on his side, not America's! Revenge was both of theirs, as the flames built and flickered as though they were dancing in joy at feeding themselves on so important a building. America deserved it, he deserved more, but Canada was a decent human being, he reasoned, even as he grinned at the blaze. He wouldn't take more than this.

America would lose his precious landmark, just as Canada lost his home. He would feel loss for once, and no one would be able to call Canada a lily-livered sap after this act.

But did he want that? Well, not that he wanted to be considered a lily-livered sap…

Looking at England's face, he knew England was respected and feared; he had burned houses, beaten enemies and rebels within inches of their lives… Did Canada want to be feared?

Yes, he stubbornly decided, glaring into the fire and refusing to consider the topic anymore. America had always been careless, he'd been unempathetic. Now it was Canada's turn to do the same, and he couldn't miss out on it now. Also, there was no turning back now, in any case.

His revenge had been dealt, he surmised, watching the flames roaring from the top of the crumbling structure.

And he had better like it, or he would have to live with the regret.

* * *

England was back.

Australia had been fortunate enough to have kept the place moderately clean, with help from Wales, and to have kept himself in presentable order. Still, as soon as England was back, he was quick to disapprove of various things.

"Your hair is an insult to haystacks everywhere! What on earth did you do to it? And what is that smell coming from the kitchen? Don't tell me you're cooking vermin you caught," he said sternly, trying to smooth down the irrepressible cowlicks on Australia's head.

"Wales set a soup bone to simmer," he said, speaking clearly but being careful not to be disrespectfully loud. Of course, it was one of Wales' soup bones, so maybe it tasted half way decent, hence the unfamiliar smell. He didn't dare point that out.

England looked around, eyes searching for the slightest imperfection in the house. Australia felt his skin tightening around him, trapping him inside and keeping him behaved. He wanted to run around the house, to mess his hair back up, but he didn't dare. He'd been raised better than that.

"Well, it seems as though you haven't made the place into a pig sty," England said, though he barely sounded pleased. Australia took it for the praise he knew it was, though, and smiled slightly. "Of course, sir."

Looking around further, it seemed as though England didn't know what he was searching for, and if he'd been a less strict, stiff upper lip type of person, Australia was sure he would be scratching his head and murmuring to himself. Finally, however, England looked up sharply at him.

"_Where_ is Ireland?" Ah, not a question Australia wanted to answer. But his upbringing dictated that he do so, even though he knew he would have to be the one to deal with England's wrath and not Ireland, the perpetrator of the crime.

"She left. She wanted to go home, Mr. England." He hoped using such a formal way to refer to England would appease him, but it did not. England's face began to blossom a rather red color, as his teeth ground together and he swore. Which Australia was not supposed to do, but apparently it was alright if England did it.

"That classless wench! She can't just do this! Who the hell does she think she is?" This was a 'do not answer' question, and Australia had learned to recognize them most of the time by now. He stood there, arms hanging at his sides like cuts of meat hanging in a smokehouse. He wished he could fiddle, but now he had to listen to England rage.

But it didn't continue for long; the empire headed for the dining room, throwing himself into a seat. "Get me beer," he demanded, calling for Australia. The colony promptly obeyed, retrieving some from the cellar, and pouring some into a mug.

However, when he brought it out, England gave him a withering glare, as though he had committed some horrible treason. Australia's heart began to beat faster, and his mind began to race. What had he done? The mug was full, the mug was clean, the beer was clear-

"I want the whole thing! Bring it, now!" Easily resolved, easily fixed, so he should calm down, he told himself, as his heart refused to stop racing. His hands shook as he picked up the small barrel of it and dragged it into the dining room.

England was pissed off, and Australia was quick to leave once the empire started drinking. England would probably go after Ireland tomorrow or something, he guessed, so he had just best stay out of his way until then.

That was the hard thing about Australia's existence, however; he was just so visible. No way to avoid England's scrutiny, not even when the empire was drunk. In fact, it was worse when England was drunk, because then he would just yell and make things up about Australia, or just expound upon his worst qualities. Then things might get painful.

For now, though, he just curled up on his bed, staring out of the window at the lovely outdoors. No way to slip outside now, though, even though it was so enticing, with the soft grass and arching trees that begged to be climbed. He could see a rabbit sniffing around, its legs and head tucked close to its body, but far enough out that it could still move and explore.

How he wanted that rabbit. Not in a possessive way; he wouldn't keep her, as she might have babies to look after or something. Also, animals, just like him, didn't like to be owned. They wanted to be free, they wanted to roam; the whole out of doors was their home, where they could do whatever they wanted.

If only he were a rabbit, or maybe a fox. Just something fast and furry and free, because animals didn't worry much about anything, except when to eat and when to sleep. And babies, but he liked them, so it was okay.

Canada had mentioned having a bear; he wished he were that bear, because then he could just live with Canada all the time and England wouldn't care. England didn't care much about animals, except when they were in the house. But surely Canada's house was off-limits for England's animal-hating, and there was a place he could be happy.

And if he were a bear, he wouldn't have to eat England's food ever again. Canada would feed him yummy food, and he would be able to explore and play all day.

In any case, though, he hoped Canada was doing alright. Wales had explained the war as best as he could; the jist of it was, America was mean and was trying to hurt Canada to get back at England.

America was not a person he understood; who would want to leave England and enter the great unknown alone? Maybe if Australia had Canada by his side, he might dare to leave, but the thought of living alone forever was unbearable. And he was a lonely continent, away from the action of Europe just like America. No one would visit him; he was nothing without England, to tell the truth.

But this was annoying him; Australia didn't like to put too much thought into his predicament, instead focusing on feeling hope for seeing Canada again, and being grateful for the reprieves and good things that happened to him.

A crash from downstairs caught his attention, and it began to niggle at his mind. He should check it out, he knew; if England were in trouble and he survived, he would want to know where the hell Australia was during the emergency.

With a sigh, and a quick prayer for safety, he headed down. What he saw shocked him.

England was sprawled on the floor, spluttering rather half-heartedly in the small waterfall escaping from the barrel onto his face. In other words, England was drowning in his own devil's brew.

Australia was quick to act, shoving the barrel aside and turning England over with a great shove. Then, since it was the best thing he could think to do, he began hitting him on the back. Rather feebly, England fought him, trying to turn over. There was no telling how much England had inhaled, but he had certainly drunk _alot._ He didn't usually get so out of it that he couldn't even get out of the way of the beer sloshing onto his face.

Was England going to die? Australia hoped not. Maybe Wales would take him to his house then, but without England who knew what would happen to him.

"Bloody hell…" England hacked, and words were good, Australia reasoned, glad that there was this sign England was alive so far. He tried to force him up off the floor, and succeeded in dragging him along on his knees.

"Come on, you've got to lie down in your bed," he murmured, as England sort of helped move himself along. It was a slow and arduous process, but they made it into the living room, where England just utterly collapsed and refused to move further.

Eventually, Australia just got blankets and bundled him up. He did not want him to die; he even prayed for it not to happen. The ash-blonde hair was inviting him to stroke it, to relieve the poor master's suffering as he lay there like he was dead, but he didn't dare. He wouldn't put it past England to wake even now just to punish him for inappropriate conduct.

He didn't dare leave either. Someone had to watch, and there was no one to go for. If the breaths ceased, Australia didn't know what he'd do. He'd never seen someone die before, so he had to be especially careful to catch the signs.

Sleep eventually claimed Australia, but he was troubled by dreams of England's death throughout the whole night.

* * *

It was over.

Canada hadn't even been there to sign the treaty, or watch it be signed. He was a colony, he had nothing to do with the diplomacy. Apparently, he could fight the war, but he still had no say. Maybe there was something to this whole independence thing; however, such a thought was too much for today, and for now, Canada focused on the rebuilding of his cabin.

America had never apologized to him, not to his face. He wanted it, but at the same time, he knew he shouldn't expect it. His revenge had already been taken, and while he still had a small pride about it, he couldn't help but try to imagine America's face at the action; had he cried, like Canada had? Had he been in too much shock to say anything?

But everything was fixed, or so England said. Back to normal, as though nothing had happened.

However, Canada knew this vengeance might always weigh on his soul, and come between his brother-the-traitor and him. His hand touched the healing scar above his eye, and he thought back to the pain that had been wrought between them both. No, no treaty could make everything perfect; but then, he supposed it hadn't been to begin with.

/AN/ Whew! Longest chapter ever!

Anyway, I would first like to say that I'm sorry both for the delay and length of this chapter; I had college. Also, all hell broke loose in my family, the details of which are private. In other words, my life has been insane, but I worked on this and other writing in bits and pieces. I'm just glad I get to finally update.

Alrighty, here's the lowdown on the history:

The Napoleonic Wars ended in 1814, in the beginning half of the year. This freed up British troops to fight in the War of 1812.

Then, in the War of 1812, came the Battle of Chippawa, on Canadian soil, in which native Canadian forces and British troops were defeated. Apparently, they had expected inexperienced American troops, and thought they were because they weren't wearing the blue of Regulars, and treated the enemy as such. When the Americans held their line, however, they figured out that these were Regulars dressed in grey due to shortage of blue fabric, rather than militia, but it was too late.

Less than a month after that came the Battle of Lundy's Lane, the bloodiest battle in the war and ever fought on Canadian soil. It was a tough win for native Canadian and British troops, and it turned back the invaders. It was fought all night, from six til morning, but that was rather hard for me to work in quite right.

Then, British troops attacked America. They invaded Washington DC solely for the purpose of burning down their government buildings in revenge for the Burning of York; however, unlike the Burning of York, there was no damage to private property, which had been the thing that had made the Burning of York such a touchy subject. After they had inflicted the damage, the British troops left, because there was no strategical value in holding Washington DC.

After that, in England, came the London Beer Flood, in which a large vat of beer broke and demolished houses and drowned nine people.

Lastly, there was the Treaty of Ghent, signed in Belgium. It ended the War of 1812, but because it took so long for the news to reach North America, there were a couple more battles after it.


	19. Chapter 19

Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last! Personally, I'll just be glad to update in less time than last time.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

Scars had a funny way of quieting one's introspection and bringing one back to the intertwined emotions associated with them. Canada had to admit, it looked like the scars he had elsewhere were going away, but the one above his eye stubbornly remained, slightly puffed out skin in a line below his eyebrow.

It could be one he would have from America forever; what a morbid thought that was. Their closest link would be the injury inflicted on Canada, a puffed up bit of skin that signified the time he had been blinded by blood, the time that America had tried to take out his eye. Or at least, he was trying to hit his face. There was no telling if he had actually been going for his eye or not.

In any case, it wasn't something Canada really wanted to dwell on. Since the war was over, he had been increasingly attacked with images of his elder brother; but not the nightmares he'd expected to get. Yes, he was still angry; what he saw in his memory, however, were happy times, what little he'd gotten.

The first time he'd met America, for instance. They had been tiny, and since America saw Kuma licking Canada, he'd done it too. Being little, Canada had only gaped at him for a moment, before shyly returning the gesture. That was about when England had seen it and gotten mad at France for teaching Canada 'perverted gestures' which he was obviously passing on to America.

America had also been rather firm about what he believed then, as well as now. He'd very clearly informed Canada that being Catholic was bad, and France was full of 'ecstergravance', but for some reason he seemed to lay that aside in order to play with Canada. It had been a rather lively game of chase, in which America had declared Canada a heathen Indian, and it had been very fun up til the point he hit him on the head with a stick. Then he'd gone crying to France and playtime had been over.

There was no saying America hadn't had his moments when they'd actually lived together too. One night, he'd snuck into Canada's room, and climbed under his blankets. He'd also covered his mouth, which was fortunate, because Canada had immediately screamed in surprise. However, after that, they got into a lengthy discussion involving whether or not Indians were people, _really_, and if their status as colonies was fair.

Canada thought maybe he should have caught on to America's state of mind then, but he didn't, and then the other colony shot up like a sapling, becoming too big and self-important to bother playing with Canada anymore. Instead, it was just more and more growing resentment between them, about who England favored more, and America's continued disapproval of Canada's religion.

It had been a sore point then, though Canada had to admit he was more loosely attached to it now. The biggest reason he stayed Catholic was because France was the one who had gotten him baptized and everything, even bothering to teach him out of a little prayer book that Canada no longer had in his possession.

But he still wondered, even now, why things had to change between him and America. It was complicated; America was angry at England, but he also wanted him to pay attention to only him. Very difficult for Canada to understand at the time, not that it stopped him from flaunting it just a little whenever he was favored over his rebellious brother. Now… now he was thinking about it again.

He didn't want to; consigning America to an 'idiot' status was far easier. Did he still love him, like he had all those years ago when he'd first licked him? Good lord, he just couldn't! Not after what he did… but Canada had to have loved America in the first place to be so deeply hurt, right?

Canada practically threw himself out of his shanty, scowling. No, he had never loved him, and had never been loved back by him. It had been something half-felt, really just an illusion that he'd had. In any case, he had work to do; the cabin wasn't going to build itself.

He seized his hatchet, ready to get to work on splitting logs. On his last cabin, he'd had help from France; anyone else might find that a surprise, expecting that France wouldn't want to risk callousing his hands, but France had said something to the opposite effect. He had calloused his hands many times during his wartime days; it was then, a pleasant difference, to roughen them up building something up for his Canada than tearing apart another nation.

It was slow, slow work, of course, since he was only one young man, but he could do it. Levers, pulleys, etc… They all did their work in helping him move everything, though he had nearly been crushed by a log on more than one occasion. Of course, he was stronger and more resourceful than he appeared, so he had mostly avoided that.

He wished it weren't just him out here, in some ways, but in other ways the solitude was a blessing. Thinking over anything was never interrupted, which was good, because in the end he wanted to have considered everything, to know what made people tick and why, and how he could avoid problems with them.

It was hardly an exciting existence, but it was alright for him.

* * *

It was a strange day, Australia supposed.

Not often did he see someone so dark-skinned, following England very reluctantly across the threshold of the house. The man, if he was a man, he was so slight, he could've been an older boy, looked like his current setting and the people in it were both unfamiliar and unwelcome. He even gave Australia a dark look for staring at him, so Australia quickly looked away.

England laughed at that, turning to the dark-skinned man. "That's no way to act, Ceylon. The boy's never seen someone like you."

Ceylon muttered something about that not being his name, but Australia was more focused on the fact that it wasn't true; he _had_ seen dark-skinned people. In fact, he vaguely recalled it being his first contact… but that had been years ago, and he didn't remember for sure now.

In any case, this whole thing was asking the ever-important question: _why_ was Ceylon here? Would he be living with them now? Australia hoped not. He didn't look happy, and he was sure to just make England upset like Ireland had, or like any of the empire's siblings seemed to.

"You'll be signing the papers upstairs; right this way." England gestured for the other nation to follow him, which was done with a rather reluctant air. The man (or boy) wasn't scowling deeply, or anything really obvious, but Australia could just pick up on the anger, the resentment. It was kind of a familiar thing, in the way that looking at something you were recently playing with was.

Though, was he an angry person too? As the pair disappeared upstairs, he had to ponder the fact. It didn't take long for him to reach the conclusion he was not, because angry people couldn't love animals, clearly. Obviously.

So, the guy upstairs was signing papers… maybe he was a colony too. He was kind of old to be one though, right? But then… Maybe he was more like Wales, or Ireland, and England had made him not be a country anymore so he could be in charge instead. Australia wondered what it would be like to be that kind of colony, instead of himself who couldn't remember a day of independence.

If he had been an independent country before, would he have even gotten taken over? He was a huge colony, or so England told him. Maybe he would have been strong enough to resist a takeover.

But then, where would he be now? The savages would be in charge, no doubt, and so he'd be backwards, just like England had said he was. No one would teach him how to be civilized, and he'd probably get invaded and taken over by a country that wasn't as nice as England.

Suddenly, he felt almost bitterly grateful for the way things were; at least with England, he was safe, and he wasn't alone. Sure, England was sometimes angry, but that was just how people were. And maybe he got drunk sometimes, but that was tolerable, so long as he stayed out of the way.

No, he couldn't bear loneliness, and he was sure to have had it in spades way out of the way as he was. Anything was better, and that was why he lov- _preferred_ England. England would let him stay here forever, he was sure, and it was better than nothing.

The stairs creaked as England and Ceylon came down, already done. Whatever he'd had to sign, he obviously had done it quickly. Ceylon's resentful face made Australia's blood heat up, just a little. Didn't he know how lucky he was, to be taken into a family? Ceylon probably didn't have anybody like England in his life, and here he was acting ungrateful.

"I suppose you'll be catching the ship back, then? Hope you enjoy your voyage." England's farewell was not even returned by Ceylon, as he turned on his heel and left. How rude. But England didn't seem too bothered by it, turning around, after shutting the door, and heading for the kitchen. He actually stopped to _smile_ at Australia, saying, "Well, that's another addition to the empire; something to drink to, right Australia?"

Australia nodded, giving a small smile back. He loved it when England did things like this, and as the empire headed to go get his ale, Australia ran into the parlor to go kick up his heels in happiness. So long as England didn't see him, this would be a great day…

* * *

Ireland had reappeared sometime during the week, and it couldn't have been at a worse time.

England had railed at her for what seemed like hours, angry at her, but more importantly, angry at France. Or at least, that was what Australia had concluded when he'd yelled 'I'll kill that French bastard' from all the way up in his office.

Anyway, so they had argued, and bickered, and name-called for a while, until Ireland was fed up and stormed off to her room.

Australia couldn't say he was grateful for her return, besides the fact it meant the house would be kept in better order. It _was_ what women were best for, he supposed. He'd seen little of them, so he didn't have a way of knowing.

Though, the biggest differences seemed to be hair length, the higher pitched voice, and the great mounds of flesh hanging off the chest. What those were for he hadn't the foggiest, and it struck him as somewhat grotesque and unusual. He was quite glad he wasn't a girl.

However, he had to deal with the deformed Ireland right about now, as he knocked on her door. He had left the cartography book he was supposed to study in there, as her room had become his play place when she'd left. Lots of shams to hide under and pretend it was his burrow, after all.

"What do you want?" The snap was less than a charitable, charming song.

"Ireland? It's me, Australia. I need to get something in there." He hoped she wasn't still angry, though it seemed too much to ask for.

There was a sigh. "Come in. Just don't touch anything, got it?"

At that, Australia froze. How was he supposed to pick up his book if he wasn't supposed to touch it? The question pulled at the very fibers of his mind, as he pondered a way of using sticks or something of the sort to push it out or something.

"Well? Are you going to come in or stand there all night?" She was obviously cross.

Australia turned the handle, ignoring the whine of it as he pushed the door open. "Is it alright if I touch my book?" He hoped she said yes, because otherwise, what was the point of coming in?

Ireland didn't look like she thought he was all that smart, groaning and muttering something about 'Albion being about that bright' at his age, said, "Yes, Australia, you can touch your book. In fact, you can rub the damn cover off if you want to."

Australia just smiled, ignoring the slight about being bright. Whoever this 'Albion' was, he didn't really know- and he didn't particularly care. "Thanks!"

There was a moment of silence, as he hunted for his book and Ireland brushed her long, long hair. It really was astounding, how long women grew their hair. It had to take a really long time to brush it out and take care of it. Plus, if Australia had hair that long, he was sure he would accidently tuck it into his pants all the time, and _that_ would be very uncomfortable, he was sure.

He scooped up the book, giving Ireland another smile. "Here it is."

Another moment of silence, as Ireland gave a nod.

Australia didn't want to leave at the moment, so he tried to think of something to say. "How come your hair's so long?"

Ireland smiled a bit, replying with a snort, "Did you ever see a girl with short hair? My hair is long because it's pretty, and because it's proper that way."

He hadn't suspected Ireland would care very much at all about being proper, so Australia had to dig for more. "So, how come men and boys don't have long hair? It might look nice."

Another snort from Ireland. "Silly boy. Men have to look like men, not women. There's a big difference between us, though maybe not so big as England seems to think."

Australia pointed. "Oh, like your chest?" The instant he said it though, he knew he'd made the wrong move.

Ireland's face turned an interesting red shade of color, and she seemed to mouth words for a moment, before her face turned angry. "Australia! You never talk about a woman's body, do you understand? It's rude and immoral! And to point at me like I'm some sort of wench! I ought to whip you, boy!"

Somehow, Australia got the feeling he shouldn't stay here, and promptly turned on his heel and ran, book clutched against his chest. He thought he heard Ireland yell something after him, but he ignored it in favor of getting to safety, his room, which he was sure she would never enter. She didn't seem to like males' rooms.

He figured there was one more thing he should note about women: they could be every bit as scary as men.

* * *

It was the frantic knocking at his door that startled Canada awake, sending him bolting out of bed. Who exactly would come to his house, especially at this time of night?

He wasn't going to be unprepared if it were a foe, in any case. He grabbed his musket, loading it as quickly as he could while the knocking became more and more urgent. It was okay; it couldn't be that important.

Swinging the door open, Canada aimed his musket at the knocker, to find…

It was America.

And he looked hysterical. "Canada, Canada! I can't see!"

Which was a strange statement to make, since he was looking right at him. At least, it looked like he was, in the darkness.

Canada felt a small burst of emotion in his chest. He didn't want to let America in, or really care about his problems, especially since it was so soon after their war… how could America think it was okay to come here?

"Why did you come here?" Another thought quickly occurred to Canada. "And how did you get here if you can't see?"

America spoke in small, almost terrified whisper. "Well, I can kind of see, but it's all blurry- I can't even make out your face!"

Groaning, Canada pointed out, "That's because it's dark, America." Really. How much more of a clod could he be?

Strangely enough, feelings seemed to be slipping back into the old pattern, of mere annoyance with America. But no, he couldn't let it go! Canada mustered up more anger, about to snap at America when the other spoke.

"No, no it's not! I can't see, I couldn't see when it was light and I can't see now!" There was a note of hysteria in America's voice, threaded through with his insistency that he had little or no sight.

Canada wanted to be angry, he wanted to banish America to the night to fumble his way home. "Well, why should I care? Since when have you ever helped me?"

It felt bizarre to say, and it must have been bizarre to hear, because America looked at him in confusion, eyes unfocused. "What…? What do you mean? I've tried to get you independence for the last few decades! How is that not help?"

Grinding his teeth, Canada fought not to curse at America. He was here disturbing his sleep with nonsense; why hadn't he just stayed at his house? Sometimes nations became near- or farsighted, or practically blind even- it happened, he was sure. And anyway, what exactly did America expect him to do about it? He wasn't a doctor.

"America…" And he regretted so deeply what he was thinking now, how he should be the bigger man and let him at least stay the night. There was no way he could safely find his way home, after riding all day and with bad vision. "It's _not_ help because I didn't want it!"

"Well… Can you let me stay with you? Please? I can't see anything!" America's voice was such a far cry from his usual bravado, tiny and almost begging. Like he didn't have another person in the world to look after him in his time of need.

Which, he probably didn't… It made Canada feel pity for him, but he was quick to remind himself it was the bastard's own fault, really. And just because they were brothers was no reason to care. And who gave a damn if he proved he was better or not? He didn't, America could go rot…

Canada let out a frustrated sigh. As much as he felt a burning hatred, his basic respect for life was overpowering that. Maybe he just wasn't the type to hate enough to cause a death. "Fine. You can have the trundle bed, but you're going back in the morning, do you understand? I'm still mad at you!"

America beamed, however, about as aware of Canada's feeling as a small child. "Thank you! You have no idea how annoying trying to ride back would be… Liberty's kind of an old horse." He promptly walked past Canada, and tripped over the end of his musket.

Groaning, Canada cursed himself for being so soft-hearted. Tomorrow, America was getting a rude awakening and no breakfast… well, he wouldn't want him to star- No! No breakfast. He just didn't want to see him kill himself going home, that was all.

He didn't understand America at all, he mused, watching him stumble blindly about the small cabin. He just wanted to act like nothing had happened between them, like it was alright now that a little time had passed and general apologies had been made. As if Canada could ever just forget the burning of his home.

America couldn't have just forgotten the burning of his capital, could he? He had to be hiding the hate somewhere within him. Maybe he was just waiting for a chance to strike when Canada wasn't suspecting. The colony let out an exasperated sigh.

It was going to be a long night, he was sure.

* * *

Apparently, England was in a good mood today. Which was great, because that meant Australia could get outside if he asked nicely. And he had, so he did.

The grass felt amazing beneath his fingers, like it did every time. He wondered if he had grass like this back in his home; he couldn't remember for sure. He supposed not, since England said it was a dusty wasteland, but one never knew for certain.

The plants were full of moisture, and if he wasn't careful, he was sure to get a grass stain, but that was alright; he was as cautious as they came. Alright, maybe it wasn't entirely true, but he liked to think he had an amazingly uncanny ability to know when it was safe to horse around and when it wasn't.

Now was one of those times. He might've rolled in the grass if he were in old clothes, but now he just had to enjoy it for the comfortable seat it was.

The boot that landed next to him startled him out of his reverie, and he looked up in shock at the figure standing above him.

"M-Mr. England! You said I could go outside-" he squeaked, immediately trying to make excuses and escape punishment.

However, he was even more shocked when England just shook his head. "Can't I enjoy my garden without you hyperventilating everywhere? Today is a good day; don't ruin it by trying to focus everything on you."

There was silence, which Australia squirmed horribly throughout. It was incredibly awkward and nerve-wracking, having the master of the house just standing over him, even if he said he was just looking at the garden. He didn't dare move from the spot, as much as he'd rather not be there.

"Those are daffodils, you know."

Australia startled badly at the announcement, looking around wildly to try and see what England was talking about. He'd never heard of daffodils; were they a plant, a tree, an animal…?

"Right in front of you, the yellow and white ones. Wales planted them here, you know, when he was living with me. Not much that blockhead can do right, but he got them to grow." England seemed only vaguely interested in what he was saying, extremely and disturbingly casual.

It chilled Australia to the bones, and he could only nod. He might have said something for Wales, if he hadn't been so frightened of this different mood from England.

Suddenly, fingers were on his head, quietly patting down his hair. "America used to love them…"

Australia could feel a burning sensation from the contact, though whether it were good or bad, he could not say; he dare not lean in or out of it. Did England… love him? Was that why he was doing this? It was some kind of appreciation, right? How could he not feel happy?

Then the contact was gone, far too quickly for Australia's taste.

England harrumphed, saying, "I have to go do some paperwork; winning has its costs." And he turned on his heel and disappeared.

Australia turned to watch him go, his own hand reaching up to gently touch the top of his head. He wanted England's hand to be back there.

He wanted to be the one England wanted; and by heck, he thought to himself, he would be.

/AN/ Well… There isn't as much going on in this chapter, and I expect to have a timeskip now. I am sorry it took so long; I had a hard time getting inspiration for a while there. But thanks for reading this far! I am glad to entertain with my writing.

Anyway, history:

First off, Ceylon (Sri Lanka) becomes a colony, after being unable to defeat British forces who started takeover of the country because they feared France taking it.

Then, Napoleon, having escaped from his exile on Elba, took over Paris, thereby ruling France once again, in an episode called the Hundred Days' Rule.

In April, Mt. Tambora erupted, killing around 80,000 people and ultimately causing the next year to become 'The Year Without a Summer', because the fine ash particles entered the stratosphere and affected the weather around the world. 1816, and several of the other years in the 1810's, were some of the coldest the world had ever experienced, with massive famines and death. In 1815, however, in the New England part of the USA, a dry fog formed, with no type of weather able to disperse it. This lasted throughout the spring and the summer.

Napoleon was defeated at the Battle of Waterloo, ending his reign, and officially marking the end of the Napoleonic Wars. Not too long after, Louis XVIII returned as King of France.

Oh yeah, and America's exaggerating his loss of vision a bit, but he is a somewhat overdramatic and young, so I figured it was something he would do… Heck, I would probably freak out if I became nearsighted overnight…


	20. Chapter 20

I am eager to keep working on this story, now that I feel I've got it rolling again. I certainly hope you enjoy this chapter; there has been a time skip, and now Canada is about 17, and Australia has grown to the age of 13.

The year is 1834.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

Wales was still sore about it, Australia knew, but really, he shouldn't be such an irritant to England. So he'd given him money he could only spend at certain shops; the shops weren't bad, were they? And so he had to work hard; didn't he like working hard?

Maybe he was upset about his sheep, and how he didn't see them so much anymore. But in any case, here Wales was, simmering across the table from England. It was surprising to Australia that he didn't make him eat in the kitchen, being the dirty, and not so well dressed bumpkin that he appeared to be, but it didn't matter much.

"Wales, that isn't the right spoon; the one to your right is your soup spoon."

England's words only made Wales more determined to use the wrong spoon, it seemed, as he defiantly took a loud slurp from his dessert spoon. "It works just fine whatever spoon it is."

Australia wanted to be sympathetic to Wales, he really did; but really, it seemed over time he had just gotten more willfully defiant towards England, and it wasn't something Australia was empathetic with.

England had an annoyed frown on his face, though not so deep that it appeared he hadn't expected this kind of behavior. Wales had outright rebelled only so long ago, and he'd kept that angry spirit ever since. Why had England even invited him over? "You know you must curb your attitude, or I might be forced to intervene once again."

Wales' hazel eyes burned, even as he hungrily took another slurp. "I'm not afraid of you, you know. I'm not a child you can just push around."

Australia was not so happy to be here, even as he quietly supped on his soup. Wales had been one of the nicest people he had ever known; but here he was, being rebellious like a child, though he said he wasn't one. Australia was glad he himself was past such a stage.

England just seemed to sneer a bit, saying, "Oh, you're not? Then why can't you even tell spoons apart?"

A sullen glare was all he got from Wales, as the smaller country continued to eat. "I can tell them apart; I just choose not to. Doesn't really matter anyway."

Which was a blatant lie, Australia knew; England had told him some time ago that Wales was rather ignorant, and though he hadn't wanted to believe it at the time, he'd had to when he saw things like this.

"Please; don't put up this ridiculous façade. You should know by now that I am in charge of you because you can't take care of yourself." England looked down his nose at Wales, and it certainly wasn't something he could do with just anybody; frankly, the empire was rather short. He was fortunate Wales was even smaller.

Wales threw down his spoon, sending it skittering across the table as he stood and glared at England. "I am not stupid, and the only reason you're in charge is because you're a bastard!"

England just laughed, rather lightly and derisively. "Resorting to a tantrum already, are we? It really shows your intelligence, doesn't it?"

Australia cringed for Wales' sake, feeling bad for him even if he seemed to bring it down on his own head.

Flushing red, Wales stammered, trying to get out a reasonable response. "W-well, I- it was just- you-"

"Face it, the only way you can handle things is with infantile reactions. It's the reason you won't go to the same church as me, or forget your silly language, or stop throwing childish tantrums. Really, it's embarrassing we're related." England dabbed at the corner of his mouth at a nonexistent piece of food.

It was pretty predictable, that things would turn out this way. Wales looked like a deer caught by surprise, frozen in place and staring at England. However, what was surprising was that he glanced over at Australia, as though asking for help.

Australia quickly looked away. He wanted nothing to do with it; it was really Wales' own fault, if you thought about it long enough. Being rebellious brought problems right onto your head, and Wales was so old, he ought to know this by now.

In fact, Australia felt a swell of superiority when Wales' eyes fell off of him, face downturned in humiliation.

"I'm not a child…"

England sighed, standing up. "Why don't you show yourself out the back door and stop embarrassing us all? There's some bread in the kitchen; you can take that as the rest of your meal."

Wales stood there, mouth seeming to tremble violently as he couldn't think of what to say.

It was almost sad to watch, seeing him get tongue-lashed this way. It made Australia want to stop watching, but he couldn't; the old emotions of childish attachment to Wales battled with a condescending air, making Australia want to know what would happen for both good and selfish reasons.

"Well? You _do_ know the way out, _don't you_?" England's expressionless face might not have given away any contempt, but his tone did.

Wales' face contorted, angry and so humiliated. "Yes, I do." It was a snap, as he turned on his heel. The unspoken words were, 'and I hate you, far more than you hate me.' He disappeared through the doorway, and there was a slam of the back door when he went through it.

England calmly sat down, taking a spoonful of soup. "I commend you on the soup; it's got a very wonderful beef flavor."

It was as though Wales hadn't been here, and Australia nodded, trying to comprehend the depths of what had gone on. "Thank you sir."

He liked to think he had flair to match England's; that was who he based most of his cooking off of, after all, since England seemed to like it so much.

Ever since Ireland had left, Australia had taken over a lot of the household chores and activities. It made him proud, actually, to be doing something so big; England was sure to value him now. No one else even lived with them.

He liked it that way.

* * *

Somehow, America's way of dealing with things was starting to sound appealing.

Canada couldn't escape the fact that he was stifled, forced to act like a child when he was in fact a young man. He had no responsibility for himself, instead led along by the word of England, whose say and whose opinions were the only ones that mattered.

It was infuriating, and Canada could see America's bid for independence a little more sympathetically now.

But no, he was far more mature than that; he could work this out like an adult, instead of a hotheaded child. There was no reason this needed to be violent or anything of the sort.

Which was why he was here now, about to knock on the door of the empire himself. It was a scary proposition, coming to the house of England himself, because he could be feeling in a cruel mood, and thus bring disproportionate retribution on Canada's head.

He should keep himself composed, Canada tried to remember, trying to school his face into one of quiet confidence. He wasn't a furious hooligan, and he didn't want England to think so.

With his papers clutched tightly in his hand, he raised the knocker, and knocked three times, as he felt that was an appropriate number. Not too many, not too few. And he waited.

It felt as though he were being made to wait on purpose, after a couple of minutes. Perhaps England knew why he was here, and was trying to make him back out through nervousness. Well, it wasn't going to work, he was here for one thing and he wasn't going to back down until he was heard out.

The door opened, startling him, as a crisp and clear voice said, "Yes, welcome, might I ask who…"

He was met with chocolate brown eyes and irrepressible cowlicks, as well as a mouth that was slightly gaping.

Canada just stared for a moment, surprised at the way the tiny child of before had become a somewhat lanky adolescent. "Australia…"

Then, however, the chapped lips closed resolutely, and out came a clipped, "Canada. You want to see England, right?"

To say Canada was confused was to say the Dead Sea was full of fish; it didn't quite explain the full details. For a moment, he struggled for words, before he said, "Australia, how are you? I mean, are you okay? How has England treated you?"

Australia seemed less than pleased, mouth a thin line before he said, "I'm fine. Are you going to come in? I'm not going to hold the door open all day."

What? Why on earth was Australia behaving in this way? Well… Canada had to admit, it had been a very long time since he'd seen him. It hadn't been that he hadn't wanted to see Australia; it had been that he didn't want to come see England, with how unbalanced he had become since America's revolutionary war, and that he was very busy. America was his bustling neighbor to the south, and he had to keep up with that.

Canada wiped his shoes off on the rug, very much conscious of England's disgust of uncleanliness. He tried to catch Australia's eye, feeling that something was wrong and he had to get to the bottom of it. "Australia, please; how are you?"

Australia didn't even look back, heading up the stairs. "I said I'm fine."

Well. That hadn't been what Canada had expected at all. Watching Australia disappear, he hesitated to follow, wondering if he would only get more distant behavior. But he had better not waste time here; he'd come with a mission, and he had to fulfill it.

He stepped rather softly up the steps, anxiety putting him the cautious stage of a hunter, trying not to disturb prey or attract the attention of a predator. Maybe years of trapping and hunting for a living had taken their toll after all.

The room that England used as his office was familiar, and as he stepped in, he saw Australia informing England that 'Canada is here to see you, sir.'

He couldn't recall calling England sir, except when trying to placate him. It disturbed him a bit, to hear it coming from Australia's mouth.

The child- no, young teen- turned away and headed for somewhere else.

Canada wanted to catch his arm, get him to stay here so that he could talk to him once he was done with England, but that would hardly be appropriate, and he had a feeling it would not get a good reaction.

"Yes? Is there something you wanted?" England's gaze bore down on him, as though he were annoyed at being bothered.

"Yes, there is something," Canada said, and he rather carefully put the stack of papers down on the desk, heart beating quickly, as he feared an explosion or similar angry display.

England raised an eyebrow, picking it up. Then, rather shockingly, he folded it up and put it in his coat pocket. "I will get to these later. I have work now. You do understand, don't you?"

Canada was stunned. He hadn't quite expected to be brushed off so easily. "W-well, it's kind of important…"

England frowned at him, folding his hands in front of himself. "Is that so, Canada? More important than running an empire? Than keeping everything from falling back into the savage days? Can you really compare your petty concerns with the needs of an empire?"

Now he was really nervous, backing away a bit. Canada hated when England gave him that look, like he saw him as an insignificant pest. Like he knew better than him, and he knew all the reasons why. Canada's gaze rather unwillingly turned down towards the floor. Well, it didn't hurt if he looked at it later, right? He just needed to read the words, and he would see Canada was serious. He spoke in a whisper, "It's still important; don't forget."

England just shook his head, getting back to his paperwork.

Canada took that as his cue to leave, and he gratefully disappeared out the door.

Now, as he tried to calm his quivering heart, he realized he ought to go visit Australia, and try to get this sorted out; the last thing he wanted was to be hated by his brother, if that was what was going on.

He wished things had gone better with England; he couldn't help but feel like he folded under pressure. He was stronger than that, he knew: but there was just something about England that forbade defiance, that took the steam out of any action he didn't like.

Fear shouldn't have been induced in him, surely; since when had England raised a hand against him? But… since when had he given him reason to?

As Canada reached Australia's door, he put the thoughts away for another time. He had other things to take care of right now. Knocking firmly, he awaited an answer.

The door opened with a creak, and he was met with the chocolate brown eyes of Australia. They were not nearly so bright as he remembered, looking at him as though he were some annoying thing he had hoped would never show up again. "Yes? Is there something you wanted?"

"Australia, can I come in?" Canada thought maybe a private setting would make Australia open up; he'd been able to more easily open up to him when England hadn't been around, after all.

It seemed for a moment that Australia wouldn't let him in, as he debated and chewed on his lip thoughtlessly. It was good to see England hadn't gotten rid of one bad habit. Then he stepped aside from the doorway with a nod, leaving an opening for Canada.

So Canada walked in, and he wasn't really surprised to find the room was spotless, and rather sparse, as though England had forgotten that Australia was a child and should have decorations. Scratch that, Australia was not really a child anymore, was he?

Turning to face Australia, Canada said, "Please, tell me what's happened."

Australia stared rather dully at him for a moment, before those eyes seemed to come alive- and not with the happy energy of before. "Oh, let's see… I've grown several inches, I hit puberty, my land mass grew by leaps and bounds, and oh, that's right, I did it all _without you showing up even once_."

The venomous words shocked Canada. He'd seen Australia be bratty, but he never once recalled him being so… well, _mean_. Maybe it was his age; Canada really hoped so. "I… I wanted to come; but Australia, I had so much going on. And besides, England didn't want me to come back-"

Australia interrupted, words sharp and cutting, "_Paperwork_ and your damn duty were more important? So important you couldn't come by in _decades_, but you can come _now_? You're just like England used to be! In fact, you're worse-"

"I couldn't come! I told you, I wanted to, but I couldn't! And what do you mean England _used to be_?" That phrase was setting off alarm bells in Canada's head. England didn't seem changed at all, not from when he periodically visited Canada, and not from now.

Australia's face wrinkled horribly, and he spat out, "That's a damned lie, and you know it! England's the only person who takes care of me, and I only serve him!"

The taste of horror was a bitter one in Canada's mouth; Australia was attached to England now. Like a dog conditioned to love an abusive owner, he would follow him anywhere. Canada had to do something.

Or did he? The reality was that Australia was stuck with England, and probably would be for some time. Wasn't it better for him to assume he was loved than to live in loneliness? Canada didn't generally dare come here except on invitation, at the risk he would have to stay and be punished, and he lived so far away; he couldn't take care of Australia himself. He couldn't bring him home, and there was no way he would move back here. He had to keep up with America.

Canada was defeated. He hung his head, saying, "If that's what you want to believe. I must go now; I will see you again, do you understand?"

"It _is_ true! And I don't care if I see your damned face ever again!" Australia was belligerent, practically snarling at him for daring to question England's love for him.

It was hopeless. And England was the one who had done it. Anger suddenly bloomed, like a robust flower in Canada's chest, and he could feel it give him power.

So he clomped down the hall, bursting into England's office unannounced.

England looked up sharply, about to protest the invasion. "Good lord, I say-"

"No! Do not say another word!" Canada was angry, to put it simply, and it must have showed on his features, for England said nothing more. Australia was destroyed, he was forced to be a slave to England, and Canada could not bear to be speechless about this matter! "You had better treat him right, do you understand? He is not an animal you can train to follow you!"

England raised an eyebrow, saying rather calmly, "I presume you mean Australia? I am treating him exactly right, thank you, and he might well reach the same level of civilization as you with the next decade or so."

Canada's glare must have been frightening, for England blanched on sight of it. How dare England talk so casually about the child he had tormented throughout his stay! "He is not a savage! You are ruining him, do you understand? Stop it with this madness and treat him like a normal child!"

Giving a sigh, England looked around the room, as if to make sure Canada's shouting wasn't disturbing his belongings, and said, "Will that be all? Or are you going to insist on further embarrassing yourself? He has changed already, for the better, and no amount of shouting is going to reverse that."

_His_ Australia was gone. Canada felt it distinctly, and he hated England all the more for it. The sorrow suddenly bubbled up in his chest, like it would come and force its way out of his face. He had to turn and leave before it did.

Good lord, that laughing child was gone! Everything they had had together no long mattered to the sullen teen he was now greeted with.

Why hadn't he visited? He knew it just wasn't done, unless called for; but he could've defied convention, he could've just come and made Australia not forget who he was. Yes, England was frightening, but he wouldn't commit a huge atrocity on _him_ just for visiting, would he?

Or would he have put Australia through the ringer, as soon as Canada had left? Would life be worse, with the benevolent figure in Australia's life appearing and disappearing constantly? Canada had no way of knowing.

But the fear had held him back, either way, and his chance at changing things had been squandered.

And now, he had lost one of his most precious companions.

Canada exited the house with a heavy heart, glaring at the portrait of England on the wall and making a vow not to let fear stop him from doing what he needed, or what others needed, again. 'Coward' would never be a word people associated with him!

* * *

Australia watched Canada leave, hands pressed against the window like a small child's.

Something was the matter with him as he watched, because his heart was twisting and turning, as though angry at him for what he'd done and said. But he had been right to do so; people who loved you didn't leave you forever alone. That was how he knew England loved him; why else would he keep him around so long?

Besides, he was too grown up for Canada. The man believed in childishly emotional relationships, and really, he was part of Australia's past, not his future. People connected because they needed each other for one thing or another; Australia needed England to teach him and take care of him, and England needed Australia to run the house and be a good colony.

It was a good relationship, and he was happy.

He was.

That was why his eyes were stinging as he watched the older colony disappear, and he had chewed on his lip so that it bled.

Canada looked at the house one last time, before he slipped into the carriage.

At that moment, something in Australia broke, and his heart became frantic. He couldn't just let Canada leave! What if he never came back? What he never loved him again?

Australia made a wild, madcap dash out of his room and down the stairs, an absolute panic clawing at his insides. No, he hadn't wanted him to leave! He hadn't wanted to say those things! Canada should just come back in, and it would be fine, he'd tell him he was lying and he didn't mean it and that he should take him with him and they would be happy and-

He threw the front door open, just in time to see the dust of the carriage as it took off. His hammered in his chest as he took off after it, trying to cry out loudly past the horrible gasps of air he had to make to keep up; it wasn't exactly a slow departure. "Please… Canada… Wait!"

But he didn't wait, and no one seemed to hear him as it picked up even more speed, as though Canada had decided he wanted to be out of there in a hurry.

Just as he nearly was close enough to latch onto the back of the carriage, Australia suddenly made a rather violent acquaintance with the ground, getting a mouthful of dirt and a rather shocking pain throughout the nose.

He looked around wildly, rather confused, until he saw the protruding root that had tripped him. By the time he was back up on his feet, the carriage was some ways in the distance.

Crying was the first reaction, as he wiped at his nose and discovered blood on his sleeve, but no, he reminded himself, he was a man, and a British colony. He had dignity, even standing in the middle of the road, dirty as a beggar child and sporting a bleeding nose. So he while his shoulders shook, he fought to keep the tears out of his eyes.

Canada was gone, and he would never come back!

Why hadn't he just accepted the long time he was missing from his life, and welcomed him back? He should have been grateful to see him, not acting like some clod who expected everyone to care deeply about him!

He'd brought it on himself, as always. A deep, slimy feeling settled in his gut, of hatred towards his own stupidity, himself. He just couldn't deal with people normally, could he? Would he always be deficient this way?

Oh hell, he couldn't take it, as he fell to his knees once again, choked sobs beginning to escape, even as it hurt his nose. He couldn't get Canada back, no matter what. And this reality was a very bitter pill to swallow.

"Good lord, what have you done to yourself?" England's face met him, wrinkled in disgust.

He must have looked a mess, he figured, hardly attractive crying and face covered in blood. But it couldn't stop his quavering voice, as he replied miserably, "I-I fell."

England gave a groan, crossing his arms and looking down rather severely at Australia. "Is this about Canada?" When there was no answer besides the snuffling, half-suppressed sobs of Australia, he continued, "Because what have we talked about? This kind of display is unacceptable! Do I have to whip you?"

Australia was quick to assure him otherwise, though his voice was still half-choked off due to his tears, "No, no, you don't have to; I'm sorry, it w-won't happen again."

His hope was gone with Canada, and so was his defiance of England's norms.

England's face seemed to soften a bit, and he pulled out his handkerchief, pressing it against Australia's nose and tilting his head forward. "Come on, you'll drown if you keep looking up that way. Get on your feet; we're going home."

Australia numbly did as he was told, holding the hankie in place, following England silently.

"Don't think you're getting off easy; I'm putting you in the finger pillories for some time when we get back; no reason to ruin good clothes this way, acting like a lunatic." England didn't look back at him, trusting he was following.

Australia's head twisted around, one last time, as he looked where the carriage had disappeared. There was only the road, stretching on without the slightest sign of human life. He hung his head, and followed without complaint.

/AN/ Well, I hope you liked that chapter…

Australia's a moody teenager! Yay! Lucky duck… I know I hated that period in my life.

And, just a note, my headcanon is that years seem to pass a lot quicker to countries than normal people, hence it can take them years to change mentally and emotionally.

Kay, history referenced in this chapter include:

Merthyr Tydfil, armed uprisings in Wales in the city/borough of the same name. This occurred in 1831, but it was by far the last time discontent would surface in Wales. The conditions were hard for the average Welsh man or woman, because most of their economy was made up of things like ironworking and mining coal. Also, most of the Welsh didn't get a position of power in their country; the owners of the mines and such were predominantly English, as was historically common. This brought a bitter social conflict between the two groups.

As for Canada, the country people had become fed up with a government that wasn't influenced by the will of the people it governed; the colonial government was elected by the government in Britain, rather than in Canada. Some radicals even wanted a complete break from British government. So the legislative council wrote up ninety-two resolutions and sent them to the British. Said resolution were ignored for about three years.


	21. Chapter 21

And this is the next chapter! Enjoy!

Just a note, the AN on the last chapter should say that the Merthyr Tydfil uprising was by far **not** the last time discontent would surface in Wales; that was a typo. Hope you can forgive me.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

"I told you he was infuriating."

Canada gave America a long suffering glare, pausing in his carving of the small piece of wood in his hand. "And I told you, if you're going to stay around my home, you're going to have to be quiet."

America ignored him, continuing on. "He treats you as though he loves you, then he leaves and demands a bunch of money and doesn't let you have a say. He's sort of a bastard, really."

Looking down at the bear statue he was making, Canada couldn't deny that some of the words rang true. England felt stifling now, acting as though he had him under his thumb and there was nothing he could do about it. "Well, he's still the one in charge; he's the empire, and I have to listen to him."

America raised his eyebrows, sighing and saying, "You should consider your options; I'm not making any promises, but… there's always a place for you at my house. You wouldn't have to be alone, if you wanted to leave."

It was an incredibly sensitive statement, for America, and Canada looked over, met by sincere blue eyes. However, an appropriate answer evaded him, and he quickly looked away. He… sort of wanted to. Just them, together again, without an overbearing England to fight with. Somehow, the pain between them seemed far away, and a vague, happy future stretched out in front of Canada. But he shook his head, clearing it of such ridiculous thoughts. "I can't; you know I can't."

Voice a little sterner, America replied, "You mean you won't. You didn't even like him in the beginning; what is so different now?"

Canada pursed his lips, trying to come up with a response. It was hard to explain to someone like America, who believed in not keeping things around that you didn't like. Of course, he hadn't always been that way; he used to scare Canada by telling him he would go to Hell for dancing and singing.

But what to tell him? "I think… You see, America, I have a duty. I have to go along with what he wants; I can't just rebel. That's irresponsible."

America snorted, half-frowning, half-laughing, it seemed. "Oh, look who's decided to get on their high horse; you're no better than I am. I just had the guts back then to do something about my situation."

Canada clenched his teeth, scowling like a morbid preacher at America. He did not like being told, in so many words, that he was a coward compared to America. It wasn't true; it was just smarter to do things this way! "Well, at least I'm trying to talk it out, before I do something like dumping tea in a harbor."

A laugh was barked out, but America looked a little less than amused. "You're just teasing me, aren't you? Or do you just have a really bad memory? I tried all the normal routes before having a war; what, do you think I'm crazy?"

"Yes." It sort of slipped out, and Canada sort of regretted it at the frown on America's face. "Well… you would have to be crazy to take on the empire. You should have just taken your lumps and been satisfied with your lot when all other measures didn't work out."

"Uh huh. Is that what you're going to do?"

It made Canada uncomfortable, the scrutiny of his plans. He focused on the bear, carefully carving a nose of just the right shape. "England's learned this time."

Another careful shave off the nose. "He'll know not to just ignore me."

Tiny, tiny shave right there… "He's smarter now."

"If you want to believe that… But Canada," And here America looked him in the eyes, forcing him to look away from his project, "you've forgotten something important."

Canada's eyebrows crinkled. What on earth could America mean by that? He'd remembered everything, and had been thinking about nonviolent ways to achieve his ends; there was nothing that hadn't been at least momentarily considered. "What?"

Not even blinking, eyes seeming to pierce through to the back of Canada's skull, America replied, "You're not me." Then he moved away, eyes softening back to their normal happiness and gazing about the woods. "When are you going to cut down that huge pine? It looks like it is practically dead to me."

But Canada was just staring ahead. It was the fatal flaw:

He was not America, and thus, would not be taken seriously.

Hell.

* * *

He wanted someone else to be here.

Not that Australia would ever tell England, of course, but… the house was lonely, with just the two of them. Especially when England left. Truth be told, he'd been happy when Ireland had left, but now he wished she would come back already.

So, naturally, he was standing outside and brushing Liz, England's mare. She was a wonderful horse, with far more easily readable feelings than any human. That was the great thing about animals; they could love simply, and without strings attached or anything silly like that. And they could be loved back just as easily, if you treated them right.

Liz was one of those such animals, and Australia could practically feel the happiness coming off of her as she was paid attention to for the first time in what must have been a while; England hardly went riding anymore.

"You're a pretty horse, you know?" he informed her, patting her side as she snuffled through her nose. Chestnut-brown with a white stripe down her forehead; Australia couldn't have imagined a more beautiful horse. He moved on to stroking her head, smiling a small, rarely-seen smile as he did.

"I wish you were mine; I would take you out in the pasture every day. And you wouldn't have to pull a cart ever again." But he would keep her safe, and in the stable or pasture all the time. Horses shouldn't have to be afraid of all the noise and bustle of a city, or strange new faces.

Liz seemed to agree with him, flicking her tail placidly at some flies.

"And I would make sure you were brushed every day; you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Of course she would. The poor old mare needed attention, like any creature did. Australia pressed a kiss to her snout, though he was glad no one was around to see it; they might consider it a bit strange.

"Australia! What are you doing with my horse?"

Australia whipped around, shocked, as Liz whinnied. "England, sir, I wasn't doing anything, she just needed a brush is all!"

England strode up decisively, shoes making imprints on the dirty ground. His eyes were hard as he looked down at Australia, and he seemed still a head and a half taller. "So, I suppose you've got me wondering: _who_ gave you permission to come and cavort about in _my_ stable with _my_ horse?"

Chewing on his lip, even though it was sore, Australia was hard pressed to find a good answer. He had a feeling not a lot would make a difference at this point. "Well, she's lonely, sir."

England barked out a laugh, rolling his eyes and saying, "_Please_. A horse can hardly be lonely like a person is; besides, I use her every week. Even if she really had emotions like a person, that's plenty for an old mare like her."

"It is not!" Australia felt a thrill of horror, but the angry expression stayed on his face. England didn't understand that animals needed love too, like anybody! And it made him brave enough to stand here and scowl at him defiantly.

England looked rather like Australia had tried to punch him in the teeth; that expression was quickly replaced with an angry, eye-twitching one. "How- How dare you! You _do not_ defy me!"

The voice, which was clearly an elder scolding a young, impressionable child, brought Australia's blood up a few more degrees. "I am not a baby, don't talk to me like I am!"

Gaping for a moment, as though looking for the words, England adopted a sneer. "You think you're all grown up now, and you can talk back? Well, let me tell you something; no matter how big you get, no matter how smart you think you are, I will always be the one in charge, and you can't change that!"  
Australia stamped his foot in frustration. England didn't get where he was coming from at all. Did he think every colony thought like America did or something? "I don't care about that! Don't treat me like a child, I just want to be treated like an adult!"

England blinked, and then crossed his arms. "Fine. Then pack your things and go. See if I care."

The abrupt change brought Australia's anger to a crashing halt. What…? Leave? He couldn't leave, where the hell would he go? He nervously traced a circle in the dirt, saying, "I-I mean… I just want a little consideration, that's all, I just… I'm not the same person I was…"

However, England seized his arm, pulling him towards the door of the barn. "Oh no, I understand; you think because you are a bigger piece of land than me, you should get more of a say; well, I assure you, when it's only you, all alone on that hunk of earth, you'll get as much say as you want. At least, until someone else comes along and colonizes you."

Fear gripped Australia's chest like ice, filling up the inside and making the chill run through him. Good lord, England was serious, wasn't he? "No, no, wait, that's not what I meant at all! Please, England, I didn't mean it!"

"Oh, didn't you?" England was positively casual about this, except for the way he was rather heavy-handedly dragging Australia towards the house. "I think this is exactly what you meant; you'd rather strike out on your own, wouldn't you?"

What would happen to him, all alone? Who would come along and take him over? There was too much that could happen, too many evil nations in the world! No one would care for him ever again if England made him leave! Australia dragged his heels on the ground, trying to slow England and reason with him. "No! I don't want to! Stop this, it isn't funny!"

That just made England chuckle, shaking his head. "No, I'm listening to you now, treating you like an adult, am I not? This _is _how you want to be treated, isn't it?" He pushed open the door, pulling Australia through it and shoving him towards the stairs. "Go on then, go pack your things up."

Australia fell onto his hip, the flesh between his hip bone and the stair being sharply pinched. However, this was a mild concern; England couldn't send him away! Where would he go? What would he do? He was too young, too small, he couldn't make it on his own! "England, please, I don't want to go! Don't make me leave!"

England didn't even bother looking at him, saying rather casually, "It is your own choice; I'm hardly making you do anything."

It was only after a moment Australia realized his nose was turning wet, as well as his eyes. "Please, I promise I'll never do it again, _please_!"

Tsking, England looked down on him, as though he were speaking insincerely. "Promises can be broken, can't they? Haven't you promised never to disobey me? Yes, you did, yet here we are. I don't suppose I'd be likely to want to take that risk again."

A promise to never disobey may or may not have been made; Australia was beyond caring, as he seized England's hand, voice hiccupping and seizing up with tears. He couldn't be left alone, England was all he had! "Please, I'm sorry, I was wrong to disobey, please forgive me! I swear I will never do it again, ever! Please, you can't make me leave!"

England's fingers lay limply in Australia's hands, silence reigning except for the sound of Australia's muted tears.

Australia's whole body shook with fear, the terror of being left alone sunk into his very bones; he couldn't be separated from the only person who still loved him, not again, not ever again… "Please… Please, I'm sorry…"

A hand descended on his hair, smoothing down his cowlicks best as was humanly possible. "I know you are. I forgive you; stop fussing so."

It was a like a dam had burst however, as relief flooded Australia's system. He tried to stifle it, and only ended up wiping at his face while crying like a baby. He couldn't quite describe how scared he had been; he only knew it was a horror reserved for nightmares turned to life.

England sighed, stroking back Australia's hair more, and also keeping him at arm's length. "Try and get control over yourself, child." It wasn't harsh, though, more like he had to make his disapproval clear for political reasons or something.

Maybe he would have been angry at being called a child before; but now he welcomed it. It was what England wanted, perhaps even why he was still here. Though an innate part of him yearned to grow and excel, maybe he had to tone it down for England; maybe he just had to live with being young forever. "I'm sorry sir…"

England said nothing more, only waiting until he calmed down to send him off to cook supper. There were no further words on the subject.

* * *

"Stop stewing already; if he doesn't listen, you're going to have to make a mature decision."

Canada gave America a half-hearted glare, giving the stew another stir. "It's not your business what I decide; and 'mature' does not mean 'rebellious', by the way; you may think it's the only way to grow, but it's not."

America gave a snort, coming over to take a look at the concoction cooking over the fire; he seemed to think he was going to get a share or something of the sort. "Of course it's the only way to grow. How often do you see a fully-grown nation completely under someone else's thumb?"

Canada's eyebrows lowered, as he thought. "Well… What about… um… Poland?" It was the best he could think of, and he was lucky to know that much. Eastern Europe was not exactly a popular topic of study to France. It was just the fact that Canada had begged to know about the world that France had given him material on the topic.

"He's not a full-grown country, actually; He was once upon a time, but he became younger when he was not a country anymore. Anyway, he'd think you rebelling was a good idea; he liked my idea to become a country." America seemed determined to turn everything in his favor, as he watched the stew cook over Canada's shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Canada gave a vicious stir to the stew. "Other countries just thought it was really interesting, that's all; that, or they didn't like England. It has nothing to do with your intelligence or ingenuity, if you even know what those words mean."

Sounding a little shocked at Canada's sharp tongue, America replied, "I see you're taking after England, are you? You think you're smarter than me, just because you can stand there and make sniping comments? Here's a revelation: I'm the one happy and free. That's more than you can say for yourself, right?"

Flushing, Canada turned around to glare. "I'm not taking after England, you don't know what you're talking about! I'm _nothing _like him, and I'm perfectly happy where I am, thank you very much!" It was a blatant lie, one that even America was sure to see through.

And he did, as he shook his head at Canada pityingly. "You can't tell me you're happy if you're still trying to get him to treat you fairly; I'm not stupid, no matter what you think. I can tell when a relationship is going sour, and that's why I got out of there like my tail was on fire."

It was hard to ignore; America couldn't be said to be a great nation, but he was reasonably happy, wasn't he? England wasn't fair, he wouldn't correct the problems in their relationship for the better; but Canada didn't know it would stay that way. It could take a while for communication between the two of them sometimes, which was hardly England's fault.

"You don't know that he's not going to listen; you don't know that he hasn't changed," Canada insisted, lifting the ladle up to blow on its contents and take a sip. Mmm. Good and savory, just as bear meat always should be.

"And you don't know that he will. All that I'm going to say is, don't be surprised when he acts like a bastard." America didn't continue, instead leaving Canada's side and returning to his seat by the window.

Canada glared into the stew, left to dwell on America's words and try to dissuade himself of their truthfulness. He didn't want to leave; he just wanted to be treated fairly. There was no way it would come to rebellion… right?

/AN/ Well, not a lot happened in the English-speaking world during 1835… so yes, none of this is based off of a specific event. However, historically, Australia has been more, well, attached to England (Britain, whatever) than Canada. I figure this is because Australia is so much more removed from Europe than Canada is, and therefore relied more on the empire for protection from 'heathen' influences.

The next chapter should be longer, as a certain other character will be making an appearance.


	22. Chapter 22

An OC will make an appearance in this one, so I hope you enjoy my creativity. Some of my theories of countries are present in this chapter.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

"You wouldn't believe this guy! He's taking on a whole country, just so that he can be independent!" America was grinning, as though this were the best thing to have happened since his revolutionary war.

Canada just sighed, saying, "Yes, a man after your own heart, I'm sure." It seemed America had a new favorite fledgling country, who was rather closely related.

"Exactly! Texas has bravery, like nothing I've ever seen! You ought to take a page out of _his_ book." The smug look on America's face was infuriating, as though this Texas were his own protégé.

Admittedly, he sort of was, but still… It wasn't as though America had planned things this way, right? Canada just shook his head, unable to see a bright future for Texas. The territory had some way to go before international recognition, and with America as a next door neighbor, he wasn't likely to be his own country for long. "I suppose you'll want to take him under your wing?"

"Are you joking?" America was looking at him at like he was crazy. "I'm not getting anywhere near him. The last thing I want right now is a war with Mexico!" He readjusted his nice coat, surely one of the best he owned, though it could hardly compete with England's best. "Still… the kid's got some guts there. Uphill battle all the way, I'm sure."

"I'm sure." Did Canada care one way or the other? He couldn't say with certainty. Texas was rather removed from him, some simple-minded frontiersman who wanted to have things the way he wanted, just like America. He doubted a country boxed in by America and Mexico would really have an effect on him at all. "Are you quite done with your raving about him?"

America blinked back at him, like a rabbit that was trying to figure out what the being in front of them is. "What raving? I was just telling you what's going on in our part of the world, that's all."

Rolling his eyes, Canada hefted up logs from his log pile, heading for the inside of his cabin. "If you're going to stay around, you might as well do something useful; grab some logs and help me move them inside."

Just laughing, however, America replaced the hat on his head. "I was just starting to think I was outwearing my welcome. I suppose I'll be on my way; you don't mind if I take a small meal with me for on the road, do you?"

Canada found himself saying no, even though he wanted to deny his brother that little gesture. As the broad shoulders disappeared into his pantry, Canada couldn't help but sigh. There was just something, after this time, that seemed to have healed some of their respective wounds. It was as though his leaving, and the attacks, were no longer a big thing.

He dropped the logs by his fireplace, hand coming up to feel the scar above his eye. Could he ever truly forget, however amiable America might act? Was this one of those times to forgive and forget? He felt like it might be buried deep inside of him forever.

"I'm leaving now; you may return to your solitude, oh hermit."

Canada couldn't help but smile, just a little. America always did have such a sense of humor. He turned to watched the back of his coat disappear, and it only occurred to him shortly after to worry that America had swiped some maple syrup or sugar or something equally precious.

* * *

The drunken laughter automatically made Australia cringe, but the fact that it wasn't a single, desperate laugh made it not so worrying. He should have known the love of the bottle ran in the family, and he told himself that Scotland would know it was him, and not America, nor anyone else.

"And there's her face, ruddy as you please! She was drunk off her arse!" The roar of laughter accompanied the end of the story, and it seemed as though Scotland and England were unaware of anything outside of themselves.

Australia smiled a bit. They were talking about Ireland, and her first discovery of drink. It was rather strange that a woman should get so drunk, but Australia could hardly have claimed he was an expert on women, so he let it be. He didn't like to think of her being violent, but somehow it didn't seem like an exaggeration of her character, not to him, with all the times the softness of his hide had been threatened.

"Have a sip, lad!"

Suddenly, a mug was being shoved at him, and Australia was quick to obey the burly elder brother's command. He took down as huge a gulp as he could, and promptly choked, lungs and throat burning like Hell itself.

He came to himself as he saw the pair breaking out in a new round of laughter, and even as his eyes ran he put up a half-hearted glare. That was a nasty trick, downright foul; he would've expected some sort of warning, other than 'Have a sip, lad!'

"He takes after you, I see; y'nearly drowned in your first pint!" Scotland was laughing the hardest, looking across at England with a huge smirking grin.

The younger British nation, however, glared, slurring back, "I did not, that's a lie! I took to it like _water_!"

Australia could help but grin a bit, as the burning had died down. Imagine, England being so little he couldn't handle a pint! Well, not that Australia could handle a pint… anyway, it made Australia feel better not to be alone in this apparent handicap.

"Ah, you were a sopping runt! Y'always looked like someone had poured water on your head and y'were shaking from the cold!"

At that announcement, England's face turned downright ugly. "Well, you always had that big, ugly square head of yours! It looks like a hairy parcel!"

Imagine, England a tiny shivering kid… Australia couldn't quite picture it. So instead, he transplanted a wet rabbit into the thought, and he sort of got the picture then.

"It's you an' America; you always looked so scrawny, you know? Oh, come on now, Albion, don't start with that-!"

A chair flew across the table, and things exploded from there. Australia was quick throw himself underneath the heavy, safe table that he knew England was not likely to overturn in his drunken state. It was startling, how quickly the flavor of the mood had changed, from comraderie and general rowdy merriment to sloppy anger in one instant.

"I don't care about that bloody little runt! I don't care!" England shrieked at Scotland, as though the elder nation had insinuated a close relationship between the two by saying they were similar.

But Scotland should have known better, Australia supposed; America was a tricky issue, and even more so when England was drunk and not-quite-himself. The anger seemed to push down on Australia, forcing him towards the floor as England's rage grew.

"I don't damn well need him, never did, never!"

"Calm the hell down!" Scotland's feet were close to England's, which must mean he was grabbing him, which must be why there were outraged little gasps making their way towards Australia.

It never occurred to Australia to dwell much on England's anger, or sorrow, when drunk; being drunk seemed to be an entirely separate state of being from normalcy, and he dared not question that England didn't really have a range of feelings and this was just a fluke, as England was sure to assure him.

"Get off of me you bloody bastard!"

"You know getting like this is useless! Albion, calm down." Scotland's words were strong and solid where England's were just the moanings and whinings of a drunken man.

Australia hoped that Scotland knew what to do; it had been years and Australia hadn't come up with anything better than hiding. Maybe he should know something new by now; he had no one to compare himself to, though.

"Upstairs we go, come with me." The comforting burr of Scotland's voice cut off any further argument from England, who just seemed to be making some sort of sniffling and hiccupping noise.

And he went, to Australia's surprise, though he seemed to be making wet-sounding protests the entire way. Crawling out from under the table, he watched as the two figures disappeared, through the living area and up the stairs.

A whole torrent of emotions went through Australia. He shouldn't have to hide! No one else hid from England; everyone else knew what to do. He really was a child, wasn't he? Australia stood up with a huff, nearly clipping his head on the table on the way up. Being bigger now, he shouldn't be so, well, _frightened_…

England had sounded so… vulnerable? No, it couldn't be so. He was still the arse-kicking empire, and Australia knew he would do well not to forget it. But was it possible there was more than one England, more than drunk-face and stoic-face?

There couldn't be; England showed love only through stiff words and unannounced actions. If there were any more than that, then Australia would have been missing it all these years, and that, that was a thought he didn't want to consider.

Stumbling forward, Australia headed for the stairs, with the vague notion of tucking himself in and forgetting this night. However, he nearly bumped into Scotland, who was on his way down.

"Aye, one as young as you shouldn't look so tired; come and sit with me."

And with that, he was led over to the table, and a mug filled and placed in his hands. He stared down at liquid swishing gently in his cup, and realized his hands just didn't want to stay still.

"He's as fun as a feral cat when he's like that, I know." Scotland's brows seemed creased, as he took a great swallow of beer.

Australia hesitated, wondering if there was some way England could hear them, but then nodded. It was true; why deny it? It felt strangely gratifying that someone else could acknowledge it, when he had always been the only one who seemed to be caught in the storm that was a drunken England. "I suppose so."

Shifting his seat, Scotland sighed, looking over Australia. "He's not bad, you know. Not a bad person, I mean."

Australia gave Scotland a look, which he hoped indicated how strange he thought such a statement was. Of course he knew that! "I know that."

"Eh, of course you do." Scotland took a large gulp from his mug, turning his attention away from Australia. It was as though, without Australia's being a child, he didn't know what to say to him.

Swirling the beer a bit, Australia stared down into his mug. It wasn't something wrong with him, was it? It couldn't be. Perhaps adults just didn't do heart-to-heart talks; maybe emotional attachments were only for children and animals.

But he couldn't forget England, even when he frightened him. He knew England cared about him; he just didn't prefer to be open and tenderhearted about it. That was just how he was; some people just glared at you when they ought to smile.

It was really as though adults were two people: drunk and normal. There was no other sort; silly smiles and imparted wisdom was for children, not him.

Sipping, Australia choked down the beer. Maybe if he drank enough, he would get to be someone else for a while as well.

* * *

Beaver was an interesting animal to eat, Canada supposed. He was sure any European nation would consider it exotic, some backwoods version of a chicken. Honestly, he didn't think it tasted that different, but perhaps he was just used to it. It was better than mice or rats, in any case; that had been a dark winter.

But he ate a variety of animals, so this was just another meal to him. He was just glad to have plenty of salt, and some pepper as well; he did like his meals seasoned.

And, having done that, and blessed his food, he was about to devour a mouthful when there was a knock at the door. He nearly cursed at that; what was America doing up here _again_? Maybe it was lonely being a country, but Canada wanted some peace, for heavens' sakes!

Sighing, his chair was shoved away from the table, and he made his way over to the door. "Haven't you got anywhere else to go when you're bored? Why don't you go visit Texas or something, I'm sure…"

He stopped, staring.

Golden blonde hair, blue eyes, prickly stubble on the chin, fancy clothes…

France was _here_. He had finally come!

"Ah, bonjour, Canada, how are you?"

"I'm… I'm doing great! Oh, just great, how are you, how have you been? Please, come in!" Canada couldn't describe the light, airy feeling in his heart and head. It was like he couldn't control the happiness streaming out: his papa was here, in the flesh!

How many times had he thought about this day in his head? Too many to count, but it was here and France had come, just to see him!

France came in, eyes surveying the cabin, rather as though he had never seen it before.

Though, of course he hadn't, what was Canada thinking? It had been burned down in the meantime, this one built on the old one's ashes; it was similar, but not quite the same. He was quick to offer a chair, one of the two that sat next to his table.

"Ah, Canada…" France sat, smiling and looking around, with what appeared to be a spark of recognition in his eyes. "You have kept your home so nice. I should have known you would acquire a habit of cleanliness from living with England, no?"

Canada faltered for a moment, feeling something was amiss, but then he just smiled, looking down at his feet bashfully. "Yes, I suppose so. Though, I can't deny I learned how to make things homey from you."

There was a moment of silence, and then France said, with a slightly lower tone than Canada would have liked, "If you say so. I don't see myself as a homey person, but if it makes you feel better…"

A sense of shock spread through Canada; he had insulted France, hadn't he? Words sped out of his mouth, his mind working at breakneck speed. "I mean, I don't think you're homey, I think you're fancy, grand! It's just, you were always there for me, and when I think of home, I think of… Well, I think of you."

It had been so many years, but Canada was sure the feeling hadn't changed; even though his heart was beating faster than a bee's wings, he still was happy… wasn't he? He felt warmth inside, like always.

Now France was shifting in his seat, eyes settling on the hand-carved plaque on the wall. "Now, Canada, you know, it's been a long time… Isn't there anyone else in your life?"

The smile was definitely gone from Canada's face, as he stared back at France. What was that supposed to mean? 'It's been a long time'? He began to tug on the fingers of one hand with the other, saying, "I suppose I have England. But… but you are back. You came back to see me. Papa, I-"

France cut him off, face twitching into a slight grimace, as though it were a painful word to hear. "Please don't call me Papa."

It was like a kick to the chest, and Canada stared, feeling the breath leave him and not come back. No… France didn't say things like that… He gave hugs and kisses on the head and always said he loved him. This was not how things were supposed to go! "But… why?"

Absently tossing his hair out of his face, France gave a sigh. "Look, you are an older colony now, practically a country in your own right; you need to move on. I can't be there for you, and it's time you accepted it. You are truly more British than French now; we are not family anymore."

Canada gaped, feeling his eyes begin to sting. "No! P-France, you can't just say that! Don't you know how long I've waited, how much I wanted to see you again? You came here for a reason, not to tell me to _move on_!"

This moment he had been waiting for was like a painting caught on fire, curling in on itself and horribly marring the beautiful picture from sight. France couldn't do this to him! No one could be so cruel, least of all his beloved Papa!

France's arm twitched at his side, but he did not contradict his earlier statement. He locked eyes with Canada, and there was something, not-truth, in his eyes. "Look, when you left, that was when our relationship as Empire and Colony ended."

"I _did not leave_! You made me go!" The flare of anger Canada had felt was uncharacteristic towards France, and he glared, but in the next moment he was already beginning to regret it. His fury would only drive France further away, and he seemed as far away as he could get for someone in the same room as himself.

France flinched back, and promptly cursed under his breath, standing. "I did not want to do this, do you understand? We should have just gone our separate ways and left it at that, with none of this painful mess!"

Canada was reeling, feeling as though he would fall back if he did not sit. France… he couldn't be saying this… "Why did you even come then? Why would you come here and do this to me?" How could anyone? What had he ever done to the world, or to France, to deserve to be brushed off like a piece of loose thread off a coat?

Tightening his coat around himself, though he hadn't unbuttoned it at all, France marched towards the door, saying, "You can thank your brother for that; I came to trade with him, but he seemed to think this would be helpful! The fool!" He glared ahead, as though the pain of the situation came from America, and not from his own indifference.

As it dawned on him that America had tried to help him, Canada managed, "But why?" It didn't quite cover the emotions that were rocking him, but…how else could he express himself? This nation, who he'd dreamed of seeing again for years, was reacting like he was an annoying loose end.

And was he? Had he ever been important to the haughty nation? But the years he'd been cared for, _loved_… how could France leave him?

The door slammed without an answer, and there was another resounding pound against the wall outside, before it seemed that France disappeared.

Canada could only stare where he had once been. Was his France… gone forever? The doting father, who had cuddled him to sleep (whenever he was there) and taught him manners, told him to avoid America?

It couldn't be. But it was so.

It was rather sudden, as he hit the ground like, curling in on himself. His stomach tightened, swirling and angrily cursing the world; he swore he could taste bile in his mouth. Had he ever felt sicker? Had he ever had better reason to?

But the anger refused to move, refused to let itself out in a screaming rage; instead, it bled out slowly, as quiet tears dripped out of Canada's eyes. He was alone; he was truly alone. Not a soul to care for him in the world. He could not take one more hit like this… he wasn't even sure he could take this one.

He shivered, tasting saltiness on his tongue as words tried to form; he couldn't make them. Right now, he was just a tiny, vulnerable child, despite the fact he'd been a man in all but word for the past years. He felt stripped naked, unprotected from the elements or anything that could come his way.

Kumaji came over, and began to lick at his ear, but he didn't respond, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

He was alone.

/AN/ Next chapter is the big one! Anyway, Texas shows up as an OC in this chapter, but really just as a mention. He might show up in the future, though he will definitely be mentioned.

As for the character I said would show up, it was France. Sorry for the confusion; New Zealand will be showing up in the next few chapters, and Hong Kong in not too long either. That ought to be fun, because I found out what Hong Kong actually looked like as a child, and NZ should be fun because I have some ideas about how he should act.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	23. Chapter 23

Well, here's the big one; Canada's about to snap.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

The knocking at the door didn't rouse Canada from his half-awake state; he hadn't slept all night, but he'd been in bed all day anyway. It was as though he was trapped in a fog; one that was damp enough to keep him awake but thick enough to just confuse him generally.

"Canada? Canada! Come to the door now!" America's voice forced its way through the wooden layers of Canada's house.

But why should he answer the door for him? Why should he answer the door for anyone? No one cared about him, and there was no way anyone could prove him wrong. He was the loneliest colony in the world.

"I know that you're home! You can't fool me! You never go anywhere!"

That was a lie; of course Canada went places occasionally. America was just exaggerating, as usual. Telling tall tales seemed to be the man's pastime.

Canada pulled the blanket over his head, wishing it would block out the noise and just let him be alone but numb. It was hard to do with the pounding on the door, not that it was enough incentive to get up and do something about it.

"I _will_ break down the door! If something's amiss here, I'm not going to let it go on!" Another shove against the door. It didn't come off the hinges though, nor break through the bolt that so steadfastly held it shut.

"Go away," Canada mumbled, not nearly loud enough for America to hear. Kumajinko went over to the door, sniffing around it as though he had never smelled America's scent before.

"If you're dying… Canada, I can't be the only good nation in North America! Mexico is a bastard, you know that! Well, there is Texas, but he's not… Hrrmph, just open this door!" Suddenly, the bolt gave way with a loud crack, and the door hit the wall with a bang.

Canada didn't look up, didn't uncover his face. Why should he care if his bolt and possibly his door was broken? It didn't matter anymore. Suddenly, the blanket was ripped from his head, and his purple eyes were met with a wide-eyed, very excited America.

"Good lord, Canada! I thought you were dying of scarlet fever or something of that sort! What on earth is going on?"

Turning away, Canada reached for the blanket, mumbling about something or other involving sleep. Yes, that was all he wanted to do now. He didn't feel like anything else was worth doing, despite how empty his stomach felt.

America nudged him in the back, saying, "Don't ignore me! If something's wrong, you have to tell me! Are you sick? Did someone hurt you? Speak up!"

Canada shut his eyes, feeling them beginning to water up. "I just don't care." And he didn't, and he didn't want to. Hopefully America would leave soon, though there was some part of him that hoped he stuck around as well.

Nudging him in the back harder, America sat down next to him. "What kind of an answer is that? What don't you care about?"

"I don't care about anything." He willed America to understand, and maybe make it better, but he thought such a thing was beyond reach. Snarls in relationships were not easy to fix; a life was not easily mended.

"You have to care about something."

"No, I don't." And he didn't, damn America. There was a reason he hadn't changed out of his clothes in days, a reason he had rarely gotten up to eat or drink or relieve himself. He couldn't function; he didn't want to.

"Well, what about Kumajirou? You care about him, right?" America shifted around, trying to lean over and catch his eye. "You care about me too, don't you?"

Canada couldn't meet his eyes, as a lump started to form in his throat. Kumajirou could take care of himself; he had for the past days. The bear seemed to have been avoiding him after he refused to snuggle down in bed with him.

And America… did he care about him? "No, I don't. I just want to sleep."

The bed shifted a bit as America stopped trying to lean over. There was silence for a moment, before America petulantly burst out, "Well, I care about _you_. So get out of bed, now!"

The bedding was promptly pulled off of Canada, causing him to groan and curl up to try and regain the warm and comfort of before. He did not want to face the world today; he didn't even want to face America today.

Said country pulled at him, announcing, "I am making you some good food, and you are changing your clothes and getting a bath if I have to strip you naked and scrub you myself!"

Canada was forced into something of a sitting position, being pulled along as his legs and lower body dragged on the bed. He began to struggle then, twisting and trying to get a foothold. How dare America burst in here like he cared! "It's not your business! Leave me alone!"

"Everything in our hemisphere is my business!" America yanked him off the bed, and deposited him at the foot of it. "Stay right here; if you get back in that bed, I'll spank you, I swear I will." And he disappeared, carrying Canada's wash tub with him.

Canada stayed where he was, arms wrapped around his knees. He didn't question what America was doing; rather, he silently protested it, huffing a bit and determining to get up and back in bed. But he didn't move.

Why couldn't America see he just needed to be left alone? No one needed him; why shouldn't he fade into obscurity?

Being fully awake, though lethargic, he couldn't escape from thinking this time. A different blue-eyed blonde flashed into his vision, and he turned his face towards his knees. Hadn't he been abandoned enough in life? Hadn't there been enough separation?

No one wanted him to be happy, it seemed. It was always about them, not him, never him. England, France, America, even Australia… they discarded him when he couldn't fulfill their needs. He didn't matter to anyone; did he even matter to himself?

He would get back into bed; it was the only way to forget. He couldn't turn to drink, he couldn't afford it. Sleep was the only way to be somewhere but his own life.

A sloshing noise came to his attention, and he turned to see America making his way with a full tub of water through the door. Well, he must have really been working the pump… Canada would have never been able to fill it so fast.

America set it down, getting some water on the floor through sloshing. He looked over with a set expression at Canada, saying, "Well? Are you going to get undressed and get in, or do I have to do it for you?"

Something about America's expression was warning Canada that he wouldn't be let alone, but he tried to be stubborn anyway. "I'm not taking a bath, America. I'll get a chill."

America shook his head, stating, "Have it your way." And he was upon Canada, shucking his clothing off of him like corn.

Canada screeched, suddenly startled out of his lethargic trance, and began to fight America, yelling, "I'll do it myself! _I'll do it myself_!"

And fortunately for him, America paused in his undressing. "Promise? You're not just going to run away, are you? Because I'm faster than you, and I will hunt you down."

Blinking in a small amount of confusion, Canada nodded vigorously, wondering why America was being so serious about this. "Yes, I promise! Just let me bathe myself!"

America backed off, stating, "All right, then. I'll go make you dinner. Get yourself some _clean_ clothes after you're done taking a bath." And he headed for the stove, giving Canada only the privacy of a turned back.

Canada huffed, wondering how America had the nerve to treat him like this; but he was America, so it shouldn't have been too unexpected. He finished taking off his clothes, and stepped into the chilly water.

It was astonishing how much a small scuffle and cold bath water woke a person up. Canada felt like his thoughts were no longer mush; they were vivid, and they were about betrayal, and loss, and everyone he had ever come to miss in his life.

He thanked heaven that America didn't comment when he cried, intermittently, throughout the bath.

* * *

Australia didn't know why Wales bothered coming back. He only ever got a tongue-lashing, one he could not return in kind. But never mind the scorn, the small country always showed up when he felt he wasn't being heard.

This time, however, when Australia greeted him at the back door, he just shuffled right in, without asking for England. "And how are you? Getting strong? You should be outside more, you know."

Those stupid hazel eyes looked at Australia, expecting an equally bland response. Australia sighed, and replied, "Yes, I know. I am strong, for a colony. I'm outside enough." He actually wished he could be outside more, but he didn't want to admit that.

Wales smiled. "That's good; I guess you have to balance your time between inside and outside. That way you'll learn, and people will respect you."

"I suppose so." What was Wales getting at, anyway? Australia never knew with the nation. He didn't seem to know much, yet he was always talking like he had some sort of experience that Australia could relate to.

Setting his basket on the kitchen table, Wales continued to smile at him. "I brought you some muffins. They have some berries in them; if you try them, you can guess what kind!" Seemingly delighted with this proposed game, he looked at Australia expectantly.

Australia sighed, and took a muffin from the basket, nibbling it at. "Is that the only reason you came here? England's busy, you know. He has a lot to do."

Wales faltered, then turned to look at the muffins, as though to hide the emotion in his eyes. "Well, I thought…maybe I would come to see you. We used to get along well, didn't we?"

Sighing, Australia decided it was time to explain the big difference between them to Wales. "Things have changed; I'm not a little kid anymore. I've gotten very smart, and, well, you can see why we can't just socialize like we used to."

He'd expected simple defeat, if not confusion. What he got was different.

Blazing hazel eyes turned back on him, and Wales said, "You think because you can read, you know so much more? You think you know more than a country over a thousand years old? Australia… Australia..." he stopped to think what he was going to say, "I may not have all your precious book learning, but… but I have more, in experience. Stop treating me like I'm stupid; I'm not."

Australia was a little dumbfounded; never before had Wales turned his temper on him. He found himself in Wales' typical predicament: not knowing what to say. "I… I…"

Was he flushed red? He felt like he'd just been shamed. He'd sort of thought, all this time, that Wales hadn't noticed how he'd treated him. That maybe he was so simple, and Australia so superior, that it didn't matter. He seemed to have been wrong on that matter.

Wales seemed to have softened a bit, but not much. His features were still fixed in a frown. "If you have anything else you'd like to tell me, I'll be in the garden. You haven't weeded in a week, obviously."

And he turned on his heel, disappearing through the back door to immerse himself in dirt once again.

Australia was left to ponder himself, and why he had treated Wales the way he had. Wales wasn't as smart, was he? He didn't know a lot of things. Picture books seemed to amuse him greatly, as the book of animal specimens had. He was also short, right about Australia's height. But was there something to respect in him, despite these shortcomings?

England would say no, as his actions had demonstrated over the years. However, remembering the look in Wales' eyes, Australia had to wonder: what had Wales been, all those years ago? A warrior? A wise, independent country?

Maybe he should give this relationship a second look. Wales always seemed to be hinting at something, maybe something he ought to know. He headed for the door, head hanging just a little. Memories were coming back, and the guilt was palpable.

He should fix this.

* * *

He ought to be grateful to America, he knew.

However, it was hard for Canada to feel good about people once again, as it seemed that everyone in his life had betrayed him.

America seemed to take this in stride, getting very talkative instead of dwelling on Canada's behavior. "You know I just gained more territory, don't you? I like to call it Michigan. I know it was a little while ago, but you probably didn't hear about it, did you? Yessir, it's been an exciting year, hasn't it?"

Canada was somewhat grateful America still hadn't asked why he was in such a melancholic mood of late. It was as though it didn't matter to him, so long as Canada got better. Canada was unsure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. At least he hadn't tried to lock him up somewhere. "I suppose so. How is Texas doing?"

America brightened at the inquiry, stating, "Texas seems to be doing well! He just made Houston his capital. He's fully independent. Makes me think of myself, though he is more dark-skinned, I'd say. It's probably all the sun."

Did America visit Texas as much as he visited Canada? Maybe it was something he would never know. Canada didn't ask that now. "That's good."

"It is, isn't it? Nothing quite like becoming independent; there is nothing not worth enduring to be a country, I think."

And there America went, with his 'you ought to become a country' spiel.

Canada didn't want to be a country. He preferred to be part of a family, however broken it may seem. He couldn't deny, however, that he was itching for something more than what he had, for fairness in his treatment. Maybe there was something to being aggressive; maybe he'd been passive too long.

Taking a sip from his spoon, he tried to think on who had gotten their way in the past by being passive. No one came to mind. He could easily recall who had gotten their way by being aggressive, though; America, England, and so many other countries, well on their way to greatness in the world, or already there.

Why didn't he say something when it was needed? Had he always been this way, small and standing aside?

He was interrupted by America.

"Oh, this came by post for you. It's from England; I thought you might want to open it yourself." The country held out a small letter for him. It looked a little weathered, but that was due to the journey, undoubtedly.

He took it quietly. Had England finally responded? Perhaps he didn't need to be aggressive to get what he wanted after all; maybe something had turned out all right.

Breaking the seal, he swiftly read the inside. His heart dropped rapidly, and he found himself drooping a bit already.

"Is it bad?" America was looking at him expectantly, spoon halfway up to his mouth.

Bad? Was it bad? Suddenly, Canada felt a fire light within him. Oh yes, it was bad, it was more than bad, it was shameful, indecent, utterly wrong! How could England treat _him_, a loyal colony all these years, like a child who must simply follow blindly? How could he think Canada had no ability to feel anger, rebellion, and fight back?

He stood up, and promptly headed outside. There, on a pole, danced the empire's flag, and Canada had every intention of not leaving it there.

"Canada? What are you doing?" America stood in the doorway, watching with confusion.

Canada began to lower the flag, responding, "Being heard."

England would understand he couldn't push everyone around. England would have to hear dissent. And the bastard would have to give him what he wanted. If England would only listen to rebellion, rebellion was what he would get!

* * *

Australia didn't know why England was examining his post with such drawn down eyebrows, but he was astute enough to know it meant he shouldn't bother him with anything. He'd gotten in enough trouble over the years, asking when he shouldn't, that he would hope he had developed a sense for danger.

Something inside of him, however, said that it was a matter he would find out about soon enough, as England folded up the letter hastily and with a frown.

"Australia, I'm leaving for a while; I have a matter to attend to concerning a colony. You know what I expect of you." England was already heading for his room, clearly to pack up his bags. The man did _a lot_ of travelling, so he could pack up faster than a dog could run.

Australia followed after him, asking, "Yessir, but which colony is it? Is it that Oriental one I met some time ago….?"

"No, it is not," England replied crisply, folding his things and putting them in his bag. It seemed as though he didn't want to divulge more on the matter, for he followed up with, "You are to feed the horse, but you are not to ride her, do you understand?"

"Yessir. Is it one of the islands?"

"I'm not playing a guessing game, Australia." England gave a sigh, looking about for heaven knew what. He seemed a little distracted, more than a little annoyed with whatever had happened.

"Yessir. Is it alright if I maybe go stay at Scotland's house?" He liked him a lot, especially since he let him drink whiskey and other such throat-burning beverages. The taste might be horrible, but it was an adult drink, and it was something denied him by England.

"No, it is not all right if you go and stay at Scotland's. The man is a bad influence on you and I fully expect you would end up drinking yourself to death under his watch." Grabbing some gloves off of his dresser, England seemed to have gotten the finishing touches to his travelling wardrobe, including his corset.

When Australia had first found out about that piece of clothing, he had thought it was rather strange, but England had gotten a little red in the face and insisted it was fashionable and there was nothing strange about it. Australia had looked down at his own thick waist and wondered if he would have to start wearing one too.

"Yessir." Australia was a little disappointed, but not enough to risk England's wrath by arguing. He didn't even know how much it would take to get drunk in his case, but he highly doubted he would suddenly love the stuff enough to drown himself in it.

England lifted his bag off of the bed, and heading towards the stairs.

"Sir, are you certain the horse won't need to be ridden? She might get lonely." It was a last attempt at connecting with the horse properly; Australia knew he only had so much hope.

However, England clomped down the stairs, replying without even looking back. "You may let her out in the pasture; that is all."

Australia frowned, now that England couldn't see him, and replied, "Yessir. Goodbye, have a safe voyage!"

"Indeed." And England exited the house, with a sharp slam of the door.

* * *

In some ways, Canada hadn't expected to be interrupted during his dinner. In other ways, he knew why the knock on the door was so insistent, and his heart pounded in his chest as he went to open. Now was the moment of truth; he had to make England understand.

As the door opened, it revealed a rather ruffled-looking England. "What," he said sharply, skipping over greetings as he pointed towards the fluttering flag, "is that? It had better not be what I think it is."

Canada puffed out his chest, though his hands were near shaking. "It's my flag. At least, it is until you do something about the way you treat me." He thought he sounded reasonable enough, not insolent like America.

Spluttering for a moment, England spat out, "_I_ change my treatment of _you_? Please, it's up to my discretion how you are treated; rip that ridiculous flag down at once, and stop this childish behavior!"

Canada couldn't. Or rather, he _wouldn't_. No one could take lying down for years on end forever; he was done with it. "I won't! You think, because I'm a colony, because I'm more _French_ than English, that you can treat me however you like! Well, it's not true, and I won't stand for it anymore!"

England gaped, saying incredulously, "_Who do you think you are_?"

_America._

The word floated between them, unsaid but easily thought of by both parties.

Canada's eyes glowed with unspoken rage, tucked away for years. "I am a loyal member of your empire, and I expect to be treated like it!"

Nothing was said for a moment. England seemed to be processing the rebellion, calculating, trying to figure where to go right with this one when he'd gone wrong with the other. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. "Do not think for one moment this feat can be pulled off twice; I will not be made a fool of."

Canada growled in frustration, taking a step forward, practically invading England's personal space. "You will _listen to me_! I just want justice, not nationhood! What is wrong with you? Why can't you let anyone be happy?"

England promptly shoved him back, snarling at him, "Do not take another step forward, boy! I will whip your hide!"

"I don't care! _I'm not afraid of you_!" And with that, Canada made the fatal move: he shoved England back, sending him stumbling into one of the many trees surrounding the building.

The look on England's face was dark, and he dug into his bag, saying, "You're going to wish you hadn't done that…"

"I'm not afraid!" Canada blurted it out, though he backed up when he saw the item pulled out of the bag. He wasn't afraid, he wasn't afraid, he wasn't afraid…

But there was nowhere to run, as England corner him in his own home. The wicked whip lashed out, striking him somewhere near the ear and nearly jarring his teeth right out of his head. His trembling hand felt the stripe left behind, and he dizzily tried to make sense of it.

England pulled back for another blow, face grim, though not without a hint of self-righteous anger in his eyes.

Canada tried to make himself as small as possible, begging himself not to scream, though he knew it was inevitable.

He was going to die.

* * *

Australia busily shined the shoes, knowing that he would get on England's good side if he did more than the bare minimum of housekeeping. Also, he did like to see himself in them, though in all honesty he thought putting so much effort into footwear was kind of silly. Why not just wear what works?

But it wasn't up to him what was proper. He'd learned by now to follow rules even when they seemed a little stupid.

England would be proud when he finally returned; not a thing was broken or out of place, and he had cooked himself proper meals and kept himself properly dressed all the time. No more of the naked escapades of yesteryear, that was for sure.

He'd been lucky; this time around, Scotland had visited extensively. It was as though drinking together had given them a bond, one that wouldn't be broken any time soon. They hadn't talked about anything significant, just idle chatter as they drank England's ale.

He still couldn't wait until the next time the burly man showed up, and he hoped tonight would be one of those times. He had new questions, concerning sheep. What exactly did England mean when he said Wales loved sheep 'a little too much'? Nothing was wrong with sheep; Australia liked them, especially lambs. He didn't particularly see how anyone could love them too much.

A knock at the door startled him, and he leapt to his feet. That had to be Scotland! He'd said he would visit again soon, and Australia had yet to find reason to doubt his word!

Clattering down the stairs, Australia threw open the door in excitement… and instead stared in shocked surprise.

"Well, go on, move! I have to get in." England stood, precariously supporting a stumbly-looking Canada on his shoulders. The colony had bandages around his neck and part of his head, and his face was drawn and tired-looking.

Australia drew back from the door, as his heart leapt to his throat. "What happened to him? Is he dying?" It would take something even more visible to kill a man, wouldn't it? Like decapitation or something…

"He will be fine, just give me a hand getting him up the stairs," England replied snippily, giving a glare at getting questions thrown at him. He was generally a grumpy individual upon returning home.

Hurriedly, Australia took Canada's other arm, helping his fellow colony into the room. Long gone was his anger towards him; if he survived, he would beg his forgiveness for the way he treated him last time. He would make him care about him once again, if he'd forgotten, and they would start things over and be brothers again and oh lord why was he crying?

"That's it, up the stairs; he's got to lie down. And stop with the tears, for heaven's sake! He will be _all right_, do you understand?" England directed them up the stairs, and, with some careful maneuvering, they made their way up.

Only every so often did Canada mumble or gasp words of protest, it seemed, trying not to move as they forced him along. It seemed he was ill enough, however, that not only was he somewhat incomprehensible, he was unable to resist their combined efforts.

It was a minor matter to get him into his room, which was still clean, since Australia had been habitually changing the dust covers in the room so that it would be usable immediately.

He cried out as they dropped him onto the bed, and looked up at England with accusing eyes.

Surprisingly enough, England looked away, murmuring to Australia, "His wounds may be infected; in any case, he is very sore and at risk for disease. He needs good food and to be kept warm. Do you understand?"

Australia found himself nodding, even as he blurted out, "But why does he have wounds? Who attacked him? What happened?"

England didn't answer, instead heading for the door and saying, "I will change his bandages when need be. Don't touch them."

And before Australia could get another word in, the empire was gone.

He looked over at Canada, who seemed to be gasping in pain. He wanted to fix it all, but he barely knew what had happened. Instead, with a shaking hand, he brushed back Canada's hair from his face. "It will be okay…"

Tears seemed to sprout in Canada's eyes, and he looked up at Australia, anger and humiliation in his eyes. "No, it won't be, not after this…"

Australia didn't know what to say, so he excused himself to get him some food. On his way down the stairs, his mind raced; what was going to happen to them now?

/AN/ Alrighty, here's the author's note! For starters, I had a difficult time with writing the Lower and Upper Canada Rebellions in this chapter, since Canada was far away from England. I didn't want to regurgitate a similar formula for every rebellion, but I didn't want to be untrue to the nature of the thing. So I hope you are satisfied with how it turned out.

Also, men wore corsets in this period, because a small waist and large shoulders were in fashion. Corsets were also in fashion the previous decade.

Know what else? I really should have made this story a three part thing… cause this is turning out much longer than I anticipated. Oh well, c'est la vie. I believe I will do a small timeskip soon, so that the next next chapter can include New Zealand. I'm as sick of waiting as you are.


	24. Chapter 24

Last chapter before the skip to New Zealand! Enjoy!

I don't own Hetalia! end/AN/

Questions, questions and more questions.

It was unnatural of England to suddenly take such an interest in his life, Canada thought. A lot of them related to his French background, such as, how much French did he use? Did he feel more French than British? What did he think of France nowadays?

He hadn't really answered the last one. He didn't want to think about the last one.

England hadn't needled him further, muttering to himself about what this meant for him and for the empire. He was always taking notes during these questionings, as though he were doing some sort of involved study of Canada.

They'd met a hiccup when he questioned him about America.

"America? What does he have to do with anything?" Maybe he'd been somewhat influenced, but like Canada was going admit that. He could make his own decisions; America had just been an extra voice in the background.

"Please." England shook his head, a condescending tone returning. "As if you would do something like this without his help. What did he say to you? How do you… _feel_ about your relationship with America?" He looked like this was a bitter topic to discuss, tasting bad to say.

Canada couldn't deny he'd had a tiny bit of help, but he wasn't going to get America in further trouble. "Nothing. I don't really care what he thinks; I'll do what's best for me, and secondly for the empire. America doesn't matter in comparison."

"But he told you to do this, didn't he, the bastard… I should go and tell him to get his Yankee arse out of my business." England was muttering himself now, eyes taking on a dark look.

Canada was quick to intervene, snapping, "So what if he did? It was _my_ decision; I'm the one who did it. Stop trying to make everything be about America."

England's face turned cold then, chilling Canada's soul. "Kindly shut your damn mouth. _You're_ the one who threw a tantrum like a child; I'm merely trying to restore order and make sense of this mess!"

"I'm not a child; a rebellion is the last resort of an oppressed people." Glaring back, Canada didn't feel like giving England an ounce of respect. The man was ruining everything he touched; even Australia knew it. He wasn't alone in his feelings.

"_Oppressed_? Why, you impertinent little-"

"Tea, sir? Oh…" Australia stood in the doorway, bearing a tea tray. Steam escaped from the teapot's spout, as there was a second's silence. "I'm sorry, sir! I didn't mean to interrupt, you normally have tea by now, so I assumed-"

"Australia, that doesn't matter. Come over here."

Australia shuffled over, delicately putting the tray on England's desk. "Yes, sir?"

Canada and America had never called England 'sir'; it aggravated Canada to no end that Australia was obligated to. He knew England must look down on the young colony.

"Australia, do you feel oppressed?" England looked at Australia expectantly, taking the teapot and pouring himself a cup. No sugar, no cream, just as he always preferred it.

The shock on Australia's face would be funny, were it not for the fact this was a serious situation. The poor lad stuttered a bit, finally managing, "No sir, never sir, you're very good to me."

Canada wasn't surprised he would say that; it wasn't true, but Australia didn't know any better.

"See; you're just being an ingrate." England seemed satisfied with that, taking some more notes. It was as though he truly thought that Australia wasn't compelled to make a dishonest answer.

Frowning, Canada replied, "He doesn't know any better; he's always been with you."

England barely seemed to react, dotting an 'i' on his paper. "And France was so much better, was he? I suppose I ought to hand you over to him now. Is that what you wanted?"

Canada's eyes narrowed to thin purple-and-white slits. England _had_ to know how much of a tender spot that was, didn't he? Surely he knew that France hadn't really cared when he gave up Canada. "I never said I wanted to leave! I just wanted to be treated fairly."

"Mhm. Treated fairly… and you seem to think this entails getting to throw a tantrum when you don't get your way. What would the rest of the colonies _think_, Canada, if I had just acquiesced to your rebellious outburst and let you go on your merry way?" England was looking sternly over his desk at Canada, as if he were punishing a pupil for talking during class.

A snarl caught in Canada's throat, and he barely choked it down. No, he mustn't react like a child here; he had to show that he was better, and take the high road. "I'm not like the rest of the colonies, and you know that. I've been a colony practically from birth; I know better than they do."

"So has Australia, and so has America. You think you're special? Please. You would leave if you got the chance, and don't try to tell me you wouldn't." England dismissively waved towards the door. "So go on, then, and do whatever it is you fill your spare time with. I couldn't care less, really."

"I will, then." Good lord, Canada hated England sometimes! He could recall a time the man had been a protector, not a warden. Those had been the times when he hadn't cried at night for France; he'd felt safe, in a family.

He reflexively blamed it on America, but then he shook his head, as he clattered down the stairs. Just because America was the one who reacted first didn't mean he was the problem; it had been growing for a long time. And he was beyond blaming his brother for anything suffered during the war years and afterwards.

His embroidery-work was retrieved from where it had sat, dusty, for many years. It was strange, to think he'd taken it up under England's tutelage. It was supposed to be a girl's pastime, but England knew how to skillfully manipulate the needle and thread, and Canada had wanted to learn. Now, he regretted having to remember that England had his soft side too.

The man was a beast, with a heart clad in iron. He'd been horrible to Australia all these years, and emotionally manipulated everyone under his power. It was unforgiveable.

The rose, clumsily outlined in the handkerchief that Canada held, begged to differ. Canada glared at it, and threw it back in its place. It was a girl's pastime; he was a man, far past anything childish or especially feminine.

Outside would be a good place to go; a walk would clear his head.

* * *

Australia didn't know what to make of Canada anymore. He didn't remember him being so… aggressive, he supposed. It wasn't the right word, but he couldn't recall any better one. The air had been full of tension between England and Canada, and Australia didn't like it.

So far, he'd mostly avoided them, and hid out in his own corners of the house. And the garden. Especially the garden. It was one of those such moments, knees ground into the dirt, that he was startled by a voice.

"So… It's been some time, hasn't it?" Canada approached Australia, hands tucked into his pockets as he looked over the young teen.

Australia dug deeper into the dirt with his trowel, intent on making room for his newest transplant. "Yes, it has."

Good lord, what was he supposed to say? If he confessed to missing him now, and Canada didn't feel any affection towards him anymore, then where would he be? He'd feel stupid and alone, and he'd have to stew in it until Canada left.

But Canada carried on. "I was thinking about you, you know. You ought to say something to England about your freedoms; you don't deserve to be a penal colony."

That made Australia freeze up inside. His head was telling him he loved England and would never do that to him; his gut was telling him to shut Canada up now before he got in trouble. "I am happy. I don't care what England has made me. And if you think I'm going to have some sort of rebellion after what happened to you, you're soft-headed."

Oops. He hadn't meant to say that… But it was true. Canada was no America; he wasn't going to inspire other people with his stories of rebellion.

Canada shifted on his feet, and suddenly the breeze going through the grass became quite audible.

Australia felt his cheeks go pink, as he stared determinedly down at the dirt. "I'm sorry. I don't think you're stupid, not really."

"I know." It was soft, as though Canada were only half-listening. He shifted around on his feet once again, and then finally spoke. "I just want you to be happy."

"Well… I'm not going to be happy if I get my hide beaten black and blue. I like living with England, and I like being here." Australia dug his fingers into the soil, feeling it get under his nails with its moist granules. "I mean that, if I had a choice between more independence, I think… I think I would choose the way things are."

"I'm sorry to hear that." And Canada did sound sorry, rather wistful.

Australia didn't look up. "Well, it's the way it is. I'm happy." He didn't reflect on the fact he felt he had to repeat it so many times. He didn't like to think too hard on some issues. "You're going to go back soon, aren't you?"

"It's probable." Canada suddenly sat down next to him, and tried to look him in the eye, as though he were attempting to search his soul.

Shuffling back a bit, Australia tucked his dirty hands under his arms, not minding the mess. "So, I'm not going to see you again for a very long time, am I?" Did he want to risk becoming close again, when there was so strong a likelihood he would be hurt by Canada's departure?

Sighing, Canada replied, "You don't know that. We could see each other again soon." It was like a question, or an offer, begging to be let back into Australia's heart.

But Australia cradled the patched-up organ protectively inside of him; he didn't like people to touch it. He snorted dismissively, stating, "Yeah, and whales will fly. You _know_ I won't see you again for years, because you never come back. Because you always have to be mad at England. Well, he's not so bad, if you just get along with him, all right?"

There was what sounded like stunned silence coming from Canada. He seemed stuck, like any person standing for England was not to be believed.

Australia continued. "In fact, I've been alone with him all these years, and look at me, I'm not broken, I'm not sad. I'm fine! I'm doing perfectly well! It's just been me and him, and I learned to get along, like none of you could, so I'm the one who is his perfect colony, I'm the one who's good! I don't need anyone else-"

He was cut off by arms wrapping tightly around him, and he nearly fought them off. But suddenly, the warmth of another person melted away his resistance, and he slumped into Canada.

"I'm sorry I haven't been there; I promise I won't desert you, not ever again."

The words were followed with a tighter squeeze, and if Australia was listening closely, he was sure there was a waver in the voice. But all he knew now was the all-encompassing feeling of human touch; it was stunning him into silence. "All right."

He felt small, unnaturally tiny, wrapped up in his larger brother's arms. But, lord, how long had it been since he'd been truly hugged? Canada was so soft and warm, it was indescribable how nice it felt to be encircled tightly in his arms.

England would have said it was weakness, or horribly feminine, but they stayed that way for a little while.

"You know what? I will have to leave, eventually, but I promise, I will come back if you need me. And I'll visit, and maybe even someday you can come and visit me." Canada seemed determined this time to stay in close contact.

Australia couldn't help but nod. He could live with it, couldn't he? Even if he didn't want Canada to leave, he couldn't deny that he would have to… and he could trust him. Yes, he could. Canada had always been the one here for him; he had to give him a second chance. "I missed you. I didn't hate you, even though I acted like it."

Canada was speechless for a moment, before giving him one last squeeze. "I know. I missed you too."

And they separated. Canada looked at Australia's hands, laughing a bit. "Come on; we'd better go inside and clean up. You know how England is about cleanliness."

They headed in, and Australia knew, he just knew, that this was the new beginning of their friendship. It was like they had started afresh, and they could do things right this time, without England interfering.

* * *

"I've come to a conclusion," England announced, after Australia had finished serving the meal.

Canada looked up, raising his eyebrows, as if to say, 'do tell.' Anything England had come up with of late seemed to be annoying, at the very least.

England looked over at Canada, stating, "You are too French. So, I'm going to do what I can to make sure you learn how to behave in an English manner better. You will have one home, and you will stay in it; I will also send over English things for you to put in it."

Canada couldn't say this was quite what he had expected. "I'm too French? What the hell is that supposed to mean? What's wrong with being French, exactly?"

The outburst only caused England to have a mildly perturbed look on his face. "That is exactly what I mean. Now, I will be sending you back with orders to your new home; you will leave tomorrow."

Canada couldn't ignore the shocked look on Australia's face; it quickly faded before he could do anything to alleviate it. He glared back at England. "I happen to be proud of my French heritage, every bit as much as my English. I can be both without it being a problem!"

"If you're going to throw a tantrum, you may leave the table." It seemed England was done with this conversation, taking a sip from his cup. He dismissively looked over at Australia, stating, "The rabbit is very well done. Good job."

"Thank you, sir." Came the small voice, as Australia looked a little dizzy.

Canada patted him on the thigh, trying to be comforting without England noticing. It would be alright; he would be back.

But the lad tightly gripped the seat of his chair, staring down at his food. It must have been jarring to him, even though Canada had promised he would be back. He was probably afraid of being alone with England; Canada wouldn't blame him.

"I'm not throwing a tantrum…" Canada almost reluctantly sighed, focusing back on his food. It didn't really matter, did it? He would be transported back, regardless of what he wanted, and he would have to live in an English-style home with English trappings and the like.

He hated it. But it was going to be his life now.

* * *

Australia watched Canada pack, and almost timidly started up a conversation. "You are going to come back, aren't you?"

Well, that didn't sound like a small child… Australia winced, glaring at himself mentally.

"Yes. I told you I would come back, didn't I? I will. I'm not a liar." Canada continued to fold up his shirts, smiling a little bit at Australia.

He didn't want him to be alone, did he? He really didn't. Australia knew he should trust him, but lord, it was hard! He played with the button at the top of his shirt, frowning a bit. "But what if you don't come back for a long time?"

"I _will_ come back; and in the meantime, I'll write letters. You'll see; it'll be all right." Canada nodded as he spoke, as though that would make what he said even more convincing. It was hard to imagine a more comical look.

Australia smiled, one corner of his mouth stretching up farther than the other. He had to trust Canada; that was what being brothers meant, didn't it? "All right. But… suppose England says you can't come back. What then?"

Canada let out a sigh. "He can't actually stop me from coming back; I can at least visit for a day, if that's what I to do." Then, closing his suitcase triumphantly, he walked over to Australia, ruffling his hair. "Everything's going to be okay again, you'll see."

And Australia trusted him as hard as he could at the moment. He hesitantly made a move to hug him, and was instantly wrapped up in Canada. "I'll miss you."

"I know. I'll miss you too." And with that, Canada released him, and went to grab his bag.

Australia walked him down and out the door, to the waiting carriage. He was certainly going to miss him, he realized, as the elder brother walked down the steps and temporarily out of his life. But he would be all right; he was hardier than that.

The carriage pulled away, and Australia felt a piece of his heart go with it. He just hoped it would come back; a heart could only be patched up and taken apart again so many times. And he needed his.

England shuffled out the door, glaring at the retreating carriage and murmuring to himself, "Good riddance."

And Australia could only think of how it was not.

/AN/ Well, Durham's report went on in this period, where Durham went to upper and lower Canada and investigated. He ultimately concluded that the French were stagnant and causing a problem because they had no culture, and that the best thing to do would be to combine the colonies to become one, and encourage immigration from England into lower Canada. That way, the French would be outnumbered, and would have less of an influence.

Also, there were various ideas about self-governance that were good, and were also used in other ethnically-British colonies.

Next chapter, New Zealand will show up! I can't wait to have a kid in the story again!


	25. Chapter 25

And, ta da, here is the next chapter! Enjoy, m'dears!

I would say New Zealand is about 9.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

It felt different, somehow, now being the Province of Canada instead of more than one colony. Canada wondered if this was how America felt when he became a country; he had been even more divided than Canada.

In any case, all he had to do was ask America; the incessant visiting hadn't stopped. Once America had figured out where his new home was, he had started visiting that instead, all while complaining that he'd had to break down the door at Canada's old home just to make sure he wasn't a stiff corpse instead of a live nation.

"How do you make such good maple syrup? I can never find the time anymore. And maple candies! I haven't made those in years, but I bet you have. You always seem to have time to do things," America forced out from amidst the pancake pieces in his mouth. It seemed he had quite the attachment to Canada's cooking.

Canada didn't know why he kept feeding the lout; if you feed a stray dog, it will keep coming back. "I don't actually have that much time on my hands; stop talking like you're the only one with affairs of state."

America swallowed loudly, and took another bite surely too big for his throat. "Well… You're not a country; you know you don't have as much to do! But don't think it's a bad thing. I have to deal with the whole world; you only have to deal with those that England lets you deal with." He took the pitcher of maple syrup, and drowned the surviving pieces of pancake.

Just sighing, Canada gave up. It wasn't worth an elongated argument; America would believe whatever he wanted, no matter what Canada said. "So… I know you and England are supposed to be on better terms now. Have you met Australia?"

America shook his head. "No, not really. I think I might have seen him once or twice; the boy likes to hide or something. Why?"

Canada shrugged. "Well, he's a good lad. I think you'd like him. He loves to be outdoors, and I know you always loved that when you were a child."

Seeming to scrutinize, America nodded carefully. It was as though he were trying to pick apart Canada's statement and find the secrets within it. "I suppose I'll have to look out for him next time. But Canada, I don't go often; it's a trip across the ocean! I'm all for adventure, but England's house is so stuffy, and everything's already been discovered there. It's why it's called the old world."

Canada laughed at that. America always felt like he was the new, the great culmination of culture's progress. So naturally, he only thought so highly of Europe. "Well, I'm going to be headed over there soon. So, don't break into my house, all right?"

Nodded, America scarfed down the rest of his pancakes. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on your house! You never know what kind of sneaks might be abroad."

"Yes, thank you very much." Canada let it go once again; America would always be a bad listener. It was just in his nature, he supposed. In any case, at least he was vocal and obvious about his affections. Hiding behind polished words could strain a relationship.

America grinned, showing off traces of his meal as he licked at his teeth. "Thanks for the pancakes! I'm going to get going now. Be careful not to break any of your special English chinaware!" America also found this whole 'being more English' situation quite humorous.

"Oh, just go already," Canada said, with a look towards heaven for patience. They might be near the same age, but he was sure America would never possess an ounce of maturity.

America disappeared through the doorway, with a bottle of maple syrup conspicuously stowed away in his pocket.

Canada cleaned up. As he did so, he wondered what would happen if America and Australia met; would it be a clash of worlds, or would they get along well? He frowned as he imagined them getting on better than he and Australia did. No, that was silly; he shouldn't be so jealous.

In any case, he would see him soon enough. He just had to finish cleaning up business around the home, and then he would leave.

* * *

To say Australia was startled to see a figure accompany England through the door was completely accurate. He stared, trying to figure out who the small blonde figure was.

"Australia, this is New Zealand; he's going to live with us for a while. Help him with his school and chores, until he catches on. Also, don't forget to make up a room for him." And with that, England clomped up the stairs to his office.

The boy looked sickly, skin a papery pale, and eyes wide and mildly watery. His hair also curled in an abnormal manner, which confused Australia to no end. Most importantly, however, was that he looked to Australia expectantly.

Australia let out a sigh. "So, New Zealand, do you need to use the privy?" It wasn't the best question to introduce himself with, he reflected, but it was better than just staring.

New Zealand's voice was small, and it made him think of a chick, peeping out its words to the world. "I… don't think so…?" He uncomfortable shuffled from foot to foot, before finally giving up on trying to pretend he knew what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, what's a privy?"

"It's where you, uh, relieve yourself." How could he not know? Where had he relieved himself before? Australia decided not to ask those questions; it might make the boy uncomfortable.

"Relieve myself from what?" New Zealand was looking more and more like a distressed chick; any minute now, it looked like he would rush to England's side, desperate for safety from Australia's questioning.

"It's where you shite, alright? Understand?" Australia certainly hoped England didn't hear that one; he'd picked it up from Scotland.

But New Zealand seemed to brighten, understanding that. "No, then."

Then was the inevitable awkward silence, filling the space around them like smog. Australia shoved his hands in his pockets, clearing his throat. "Well, then I suppose we'd better go make up your room. Come with me."

Silently, New Zealand followed him to the linen closet, where he held out his arms when asked and helped him carry the bed things to his new room. It was only in the bedroom, as Australia made the bed, that he spoke again.

"So, so, you've been here a long time, right? England isn't always, well, cold, is he?"

Australia snorted at that. England, not cold? It was very unlikely, at least without drink; then, you'd get red-hot angry or a deep, moaning blue haze. Neither of which meant he was the slightest bit friendly, of course. "He's just like he is; don't try and figure him out. He shows love through being strict."

The droop was quite visible in New Zealand's posture. He asked, almost desperately, "But you're nice, aren't you?"

Was he nice? Australia wasn't sure. He hadn't really dealt with anyone, well, beneath him before… It gave a surge of power quite suddenly. New Zealand was small, he was new, he had no idea what was going on. Australia could say whatever the hell he wanted, couldn't he? "If you don't upset me."

New Zealand visibly started at this. His eyes flicked down towards the floor, as he murmured, "You're mean."

Australia frowned, and felt a little guilty. He could see some of himself in New Zealand, the tiny boy with shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. He reached out, hesitantly, and patted him on the shoulder. "It'll be all right, you'll see. You might even put on some weight while you're here."

It didn't comfort New Zealand, apparently, even though the boy really was too skinny. "I'll go wash up for dinner; don't want to be a dusty mess."

Australia watched him disappear, and cursed himself for being too cold. If he got the chance again, he'd be nicer, he was sure. Maybe New Zealand would be like a pet; he could try giving him treats and things. Yes, that was how children were, pacified with affection. He would do better next time.

* * *

New Zealand proved to have a personality in the days after their first meeting, and it was devious.

Australia discovered mud in his shoes, and it was only after he had put them on. The squish pushing its way between his toes was disconcerting, since he hadn't expected it, and he'd yelped and kicked off his shoes. The resulting mess had to be hastily done away with, and much grumbled cursing of New Zealand took place.

It didn't take long to find New Zealand; the boy had hiked out to the edge of the pasture nearby, where a flock of sheep typically grazed.

He was entranced, holding out a fistful of clovers and trying to get a lamb to come over his way.

Australia was quick to break that concentration. "New Zealand! You put _mud in my __shoes! I'm going to twist your damn ears off!"_

New Zealand screamed, dropping the clovers and running for his life. He took Australia quite seriously, apparently.

Bounding after him, Australia yelled some more, some nonsense about making him eat his own teeth and kicking him in the bum. He was sure he would catch him; he had longer legs, after all. Like a dog chasing a rabbit, he had the advantage!

He nearly tripped over New Zealand, who had apparently tripped himself over lord knew what. Revenge was his! He seized a fistful of that blonde hair, and gave a sharp yank, moving to pin New Zealand.

New Zealand's fingers clawed at Australia's hand, screaming and squeaking and generally making a lot of indignant, pained noise. "Stoppit! Ow ow ow _stop! Austra__lia!"_

It was easy to pin him, despite the ear-splitting noise. It was strange to think such a quiet person could be so noisy when the situation called for it. Australia growled down at him, "You little brat, you bugger! What the hell is wrong with you? Speak up!"

Teary-eyed, New Zealand blinked mournfully, chest rising and falling rapidly. "You're mean! Get offa me! _England!"_

Australia seized his head, pushing it down into the dirt. "England can't hear you out here! So you'd better get talking!"

New Zealand blubbered instead, words indistinguishable between the tears.

Growling, Australia released his head. Just great; now he was really going to get into trouble, wasn't he? Still sitting on him, he wiped at New Zealand's face with his dirty thumbs, streaking it worse than the crying already was. "Stop crying; I'm not really going to twist your ears off!"

It did little to soothe the smaller colony, though the crying was quieting down a bit. His eyes still stared at Australia like he was a fearsome devil, here to punish him for his sins.

Well, Australia couldn't just let him go; he'd run off and tell England. So naturally, he continued to sit on him, stroking his head and trying to get him to stop crying completely. "That's it, I'm not going to hurt you… That's it, stop crying…" It was like trying to calm a fearful rabbit.

Fortunately, it seemed New Zealand had cried himself out; he looked up Australia warily instead, sniffling heavily.

"Now… Look. If we go into the house with you all messed up like that, there's going to be trouble. And we don't want England to be mad, right? So we've got to sneak in." Australia tried to see if New Zealand was falling for it. "And you can't make a sound or tell England, all right?"

"Why not? I want to tell on you." New Zealand's eyes were puffy, but his voice was soft again, the not-quite-timid tone Australia had yet to get used to.

Australia shook his head, pointing out, "You put mud in my shoes. You'll get in trouble too, and probably worse than me." Okay, that was an exaggeration, but there was no reason New Zealand needed to know that.

New Zealand reconsidered things then, agreeing with Australia. "How do we sneak in?"

Australia got off of New Zealand, offering him a hand up. "Well, we'll just have to be quiet and hope he's in his office. It shouldn't be a problem; he's always busy."

And the pair snuck off, barely making it in under England's nose.

* * *

Canada knocked at the door, bag in one hand and the other brushing his hair out of his face. It had been a little while, but he hoped that Australia had gotten his letters. He'd really tried this time, though he had been disappointed by the lack of return letters.

Perhaps Australia had merely been busy, or hadn't been allowed to send them. It certainly cost a pretty penny to send a letter over the Atlantic.

The door swung open quite suddenly, and an unfamiliar face stared at Canada. The boy seemed to take him in, and, apparently deciding he wasn't a good person, slammed the door in his face, calling, "Australia! It's not England!"

Well. Canada stared at the door for a moment, and raised his hand to knock again. Fancy England acquiring another colony and not even telling him… The door opened, more calmly than before, before he had the chance to knock.

"Canada?" Australia's face broke into a grin, as he swung the door open wider. "Come in, come in! Sorry about New Zealand, he's just a brat."

"I am not!" It echoed from somewhere further back in the house, the speaker hidden from view.

Canada chuckled, and walked in, setting his bag down. "So, England's out, then?" Not that England hadn't known he was coming; on the contrary, he'd asked to come, and England granted the favor. But still, an England-less house was a more welcoming one, where they could speak freely.

"Yes. He said he had business with Wales." Australia looked a bit downcast as he spoke, but he brightened up again quickly. "But, I suppose you want to know about New Zealand, right?"

"That would be nice." Canada shut the door behind himself, as Australia turned to go get New Zealand. What was it with England and blondes? Was it just a common trait of colonies he happened to take in, or did he purposely choose them that way?

"New Zealand! Get your arse in here!" Australia exploded down the hallway, apparently much freer with his language now that England wasn't here.

It was all Canada could do to keep from laughing.

"I'm coming!" The boy skittered down the rug, showing up before them while picking at his eye. "What do you want?"

Australia snatched his hand down from his face, and turned to Canada. "This's New Zealand, as I'm sure you noticed. He's to the east and south of me, you see… He's sort of brand new to this whole colony thing. Not really good at it yet, I'm afraid."

"I am so…" New Zealand glared at Australia with all the petulant power of a child.

"I see," Canada said neutrally, wanting to laugh but not daring to. At least it seemed New Zealand was a healthy, boisterous child; Australia could use a companion to bring out his childishness once again. And lord knew this house needed to be lightened up.

"We were just about to start with dinner," Australia said, patting his apron with both hands. His head tilted a bit, as though he wasn't sure what he was about to say was appropriate. "Do you suppose… you could come and help us?"

It certainly wasn't orthodox to ask a guest to help out with chores; but then, there was nothing orthodox about their living situation, it seemed. Canada nodded, asking, as they walked back to the kitchen, "Is my apron still hanging by the pantry?"

"Yes," Australia replied, toying with the long string of his apron, "It's right where you left it."

They both knew that was a lie; the last he had worn the apron, it had been practically ripped off of him by England shortly before his departure home. But Canada let it slide. It was far more comforting to think of having left peacefully back then. "Good. Is it dusty?"

He spotted it before Australia could answer, and it was indeed dusty. He lifted it off the hook, smiling at Australia. "I suppose I'll go shake it off outside. I'll be back in a moment."

"Who is he? Why is he here?" The quiet question was just heard by Canada as he slipped out the back; he didn't hear Australia's reply.

When he had appropriately cleaned off his apron, he returned inside, pushing the door open with his shoulder as he tied the bow in the back.

Australia was chopping what appeared to be a kidney, while New Zealand hovered beside him and wrinkled up his face. Australia rolled his eyes, stating, "If you don't like to look at sheep's kidneys, then don't look!"

"That's from a _sheep? Someone killed a __sheep?" New Zealand looked ready to both vomit and cry._

Before Australia could say anything (and probably make it worse), Canada cut in. "The sheep was already dead; we're just using its kidneys. Okay?" And he put his hands on New Zealand's shoulders, steering him away from the organs.

"I like sheep… Why are we eating sheep?" New Zealand asked quietly, determined not to be pacified, it seemed.

Australia groaned. It seemed he wasn't used to New Zealand yet; he must not have been around long. "We're eating sheep because I'm making steak and kidney pie, and you _will eat it, you understand?"_

"But I don't want to…"

"Well, you will!"

Canada cut in before Australia and New Zealand could continue fighting. "It would be a waste not to eat it now; you don't want to waste the sheep, do you?"

New Zealand seemed to deflate, shaking his head and wiping at his eye. "I just didn't want it to die, that's all…"

"Are you crying?" Australia demanded, making a particularly vicious chop of the kidney. It seemed he had no qualms with eating animals, despite his love of them. He probably saw his existence as more important or something, Canada supposed.

"I'm not crying…" New Zealand hastily wiped with both hands, turning away from Australia.

Canada stroked his hair, which absolutely refused to come uncurled. "It's all right… No one really wants to see something dead, not when they're young…"

New Zealand sniffled loudly, saying miserably, "I love sheep, and Australia is mean. He won't let me go pet sheep ever…" Then, rather timidly, he leaned on Canada, as though quietly demanding a hug.

And honestly? Canada didn't want to deny it to him. So he wrapped his arms around him, sighing softly. It was hard being a child and a colony; New Zealand had to be having a hard time adjusting, he figured.

The skinny arms wrapped around him, and New Zealand buried his face in Canada's chest.

Australia harrumphed loudly. "I need _someone to make the crust." __And by someone, I mean you, Canada, hung in the air unsaid._

Canada sighed, and pried off one of New Zealand's hands. "Come on, let's go make the crust. Let go, and let's go make the crust. Come on…"

In the end, he had to shuffle over to the kitchen table and get to work with the clingy child attached to his waist. He'd let it go; England would be sure to get him so he wouldn't trust so easily soon enough. Let him live in the happy world where newcomers were instant friends a while longer.

He didn't notice the burning green gaze from Australia at all.

* * *

That brat! That absolute brat!

Australia grumbled to himself, angry over Canada's affection towards New Zealand. Of course the little bugger would try and take Canada's affection away from him.

But no, he shouldn't be mad… He knew Canada could love more than one person… right? The thought nagged at him, eating at his mind as he mechanically chewed his steak and kidney pie. What if Canada only had so much love to go around?

Maybe it was silly to think that way. But what if it was true? What if a person could only love so many people? Who knew how many would be the limit!

He glared at New Zealand, who obliviously enjoyed his own piece of pie. What gave him the right to steal the only person who had ever loved him?

He would get him back; he would learn that he shouldn't try to take what wasn't his.

/AN/Well, I had some difficulty writing New Zealand… but, taking into account that New Zealanders are more soft-spoken than say, Americans, I tried to temper his personality. I see him as more even-tempered than a child Australia was, but also affectionate. And of course, loving sheep. Sorry, couldn't resist that.

Anyway, I also feel I should explain why he's a child, even though the Maori have been around a long time. The way I see it, he's representative of both cultures, in the way that France is representative of all of France, but then there's Picardy; or there's Germany, but there's still Prussia. So, yes, there's a Maori in the background; I need to do way more research before I can accurately represent him. Savvy?

I hope you've enjoyed my take on him. I can't wait to delve into his personality!

Oh, and the Rebecca Riots are going on in Wales at this point. Basically, the Welsh were upset because of tolls (English tolls on their roads) and rural deprivation. Most of their riots tended to consist of destroying the toll booths.

Btw, I'm thinking of writing a story about Hungary and Romania during and after WWI. What do you think? Good idea, bad idea? I just thought that it would be cool for people to know more about Romania, and one of the main reasons that relations between the two countries were tense all those years.

And oy vey, this makes 100,000 words... Who'd've thought I'd make a story this long?


	26. Chapter 26

I was excited to write this chapter; hope you enjoy.

Hong Kong is about 4.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

The day smelled like rain, and Australia knew it was coming. It didn't stop him from working on _his_ beautiful garden, though. He wanted to see the plants grow big and strong, and if he should get caught in the rain, he wouldn't get sick, he was sure.

Canada was inside, up in the attic and looking for a silver set that England had declared he wanted to use today.

New Zealand, however, was outside as well, trying to unlatch the door to the stable.

Australia groaned, and rose from attending to his daffodils. "What are you doing, New Zealand? You know you can't do anything with the horse, don't you?"

"I'm going to feed the sheep," the boy obstinately replied, jiggling the latch with all his puny power. It seemed he was still sickly, but hardly kept in bed. It would be so much easier if he were, even though it would mean feeding him and all that.

Rolling his eyes, Australia wondered why the boy had such an obsession with the animals. Sure, lambs were incredibly adorable, but otherwise they were just sheep. Not nearly so lively as rabbits or dogs, or as soft as a cat. "And how are you going to do that?"

"I'm going to give them horse-feed. They'll like oats." And those blue-green eyes were turned on him, lightly smiling at the apparent genius of the plan. One last shake and the latch came free.

Australia hated New Zealand's eyes; he figured blue-green was closer to purple, and therefore closer to Canada. A devious plan hatched in his mind, and he nodded vigorously. "All right, go ahead. I'm sure the sheep will love it."

And New Zealand's face turned to look at him, beaming at the apparent camaraderie. He clearly thought that Australia was being friendly, oblivious to any nefarious designs.

So Australia left him, retreating to the house. All he needed to do was wait a while, then he would teach that little brat a lesson. Canada was his; he only had so many qualities that were endearing. He needed every advantage he could get.

He watched from the window, as New Zealand lugged out a sack of oats, and took off towards the pasture. Perfect; New Zealand was so naïve.

Australia dashed to England's office, feeling an evil glee in his heart. But he shouldn't smile, he reminded himself, as he quickly schooled his features into a neutral mask. He knocked on the door, waiting impatiently for an answer.

"Come in."

So he did, and was greeted with England's neck strained over several pieces of paper.

"What do you want, boy? Can't you see I'm busy?" England wiped at one eye with the palm of his hand, as though he forgot that it was bad manners. Or maybe it was the fact that Australia wasn't important, and so England didn't care.

"Well, New Zealand took some of the horse feed and is feeding the sheep. I tried to get him to stop, but he's fairly obstinate about it." Oh, the anger, the punishment that would proceed! New Zealand would get what was coming to him, Australia greedily told himself.

England's green eyes shut for a moment, before he stood up rapidly. "That child… I always knew he would do _something_; it's in both your natures." And he marched out of the room, heading to catch the unsuspecting colony.

Australia was quick to follow, clattering down the stairs behind England and repeating to himself how excited he was about all of this. So long as Canada didn't try to intervene, there would be no problems, and New Zealand would probably get the closet, or the even be whipped! There was a twinge of his heart at that thought, as well as a strange itchiness on his back. It wouldn't be too bad, he told himself; England wouldn't punish excessively.

As they entered the back yard, New Zealand was visible in the distance, feeding a small cluster of sheep from the bag of oats. It seemed to speed England on, and the empire reached the colony shortly.

"New Zealand!"

The boy's back went as straight as a knitting needle, and he froze as though he'd been shot. The lamb near him continued to eat out of the bag hanging limply from his hand. He didn't speak.

Australia smirked. New Zealand would get it now!

"You little thief! What do you think you are doing, taking _my_ oats for _my _horse, and feeding them to _sheep_!" England seized the back of New Zealand's shirt, jerking his skinny body like a puppet on string.

New Zealand's lips trembled, as he tried to sputter out some sort of excuse; he knew he had done something wrong now.

Australia was enjoying the scene, though an annoying voice in the back of his head shrieked at him that this wasn't right. He told it to be quiet; he deserved to be the one to watch someone else get in trouble for once!

England lifted New Zealand off his toes, hauling him back towards the house. "A fine mess this is; you're every bit as bad as Australia was!"

'Was', he said 'was', didn't he? Australia's heart jumped with joy, and he bounded after England. He didn't want to miss out on seeing what happened. Hopefully Canada wouldn't hear anything; he would hate for Canada to get punished for interfering.

"A-Australia said, he said-" New Zealand tried to communicate, slung over England's shoulder as he was. But it was no use; the man had an iron will.

England dropped New Zealand into a corner of the kitchen, pointing a finger at him and commanding, "Stay there. Australia, watch him."

After England disappeared, New Zealand's big eyes turned on Australia, wet and staring. "You said- you said it was all right! Why did you say that? Why would you do that to me?"

Australia shrugged, though his heart felt like needles were poking it. This was supposed to feel good; it had to. "You must have misheard me."

New Zealand shook his head, voice hiccuppy, as he seemed to shake and shudder like he'd been soaked through. His lips seemed barely able to form the words, rushed out hysterically, "No, no, you said it was okay! You lied to me! You _lied_! You have to tell England, you have to!" And he began to stand, trying to come over to where Australia was.

Crossing his arms, Australia gave a sharp glare. "Don't move from that spot!" he barked, not at all willing to take the blame.

"You can't do this! You have to tell him, please, he'll hurt me," New Zealand pleaded, though he fell back where he was. As far as Australia was aware, he hadn't been harmed by England yet; but the suggestion in England's tone must have been enough to frighten him.

Australia shifted uneasily, suddenly seeing a brunette child instead of the toe-headed boy before him. Shivering, terrified, crying… He had been there before. And he had been left alone, hadn't he? He'd been stuck facing it alone, with no one to help him. He would never forget that, not til the day he died.

Canada had only done so much; he was afraid too, wasn't he? Suddenly, Australia felt a flare of anger: Canada would stand up to England for New Zealand, wouldn't he? If he knew what was going on, he'd be down here in two hops of toad. It wasn't really fair.

"Be quiet. I'm not telling him anything, and you better not either." His sympathy for New Zealand a passing phase, he glared down at the child. It wouldn't be fair if New Zealand got out of it; he never got out of it, even when it wasn't his fault.

The boy burst into sobs, breathing very quickly, like he couldn't have enough air at all.

Australia ignored him.

England entered the room, the effigy of the devil, a birch branch in one hand and a threatening fist in the other. "Come with me, right now."

New Zealand screamed like his very soul had been threatened, then flopped over, going silent.

Had he died? Australia beat England there, flipping the boy over. He was limp as a wet rag, and about as damp as one as well. His eyes were shut, as though he were sleeping.

"Well? What's wrong with him? Check for a pulse!"

Australia did as he was told, shoving his thumb up against New Zealand's pale neck. He almost instantly felt the small beat of the boy's heart, and gave a sigh. "He's alive."

England's great brows crinkled, and then, he said, "Of course; he has such a weak constitution, he must have fainted dead away. Well? Don't just sit there, carry him to the couch!"

Australia lifted New Zealand pretty easily, his skin chill against his own. One arm hung haphazardly swinging as he walked, but he couldn't quite get a grip on it without dropping the boy. He was quick to dump him onto the couch.

Apparently, England had fetched a rag, because he was pressing it on New Zealand's head the instant Australia stepped away. It felt wrong to watch, because, if Australia didn't know better, it would seem as though he were actually being _gentle_ and nice and everything that Australia would have wished for himself.

England stood after a moment, and he looked over at Australia. "Watch him. Let me know when he wakes up. I'll have to use an alternative punishment."

And then he left Australia alone with the little brat.

Glaring at the unconscious form of New Zealand, a bitter taste dwelled on the back of Australia's tongue. How could New Zealand get away with it? It was so unfair.

Well, there was no guarantee 'alternative' didn't mean something every bit as bad as a beating… still, if New Zealand's delicate health was going to keep interfering with this, Australia wanted him healthy as soon as possible!

* * *

Canada had to investigate after the muffled sounds became interspersed with hiccups; it was impossible to think it was just an animal or something similar then. So he'd gone, and he'd discovered New Zealand, wedged behind the couch.

"New Zealand? Is something wrong?" He'd leaned over, trying to get a look at the boy and make sure he was okay.

But New Zealand burrowed back further, covering his head with his frilled sleeves. "Go away; I don't want you to look at me."

Wait just a moment; frilled? Since when did the boy wear frilled clothing? Something here was amiss, and Canada had to get to the bottom of it. "Now, don't be that way; whatever happened, we're brothers, and I won't tease you. Come out, all right?"

"I don't want to." But he was edging forward, just a bit, before freezing up. "You swear you won't laugh?"

"Of course I won't laugh."

"Swear it. Promise you won't."

"All right, I swear it." Canada wondered what could be such a big deal; he hoped that New Zealand hadn't been hurt. He seemed too skinny to survive a proper beating, like he would snap in half when struck with a decent paddle.

New Zealand took a deep breath, and then stepped out. Ruffles, pantaloons, lace… New Zealand was wearing a dress.

Canada was shocked, to say the least. He stared openly, sputtering a bit for words. When he did manage some, they were, "Why in heaven's name are you wearing that?"

Red flushed New Zealand's face, as his hands clenched in his skirts. "I have to; England said… well, he said… That I'm a girl for fainting, that only girls faint, and Canada, I'm not a girl, I'm really not! Just because I'm wearing a dress doesn't mean I am, and please, _stop staring_!"

Sharply looking away, Canada tried to smooth things over, even as the cruel punishment made his head swirl inside. "It's all right, I was just surprised. I don't think you're a girl, New Zealand; no one thinks you're a girl."

A quivering voice replied, "Australia does. He thinks that I'm a girl because I'm smaller than him, and I have curls and he doesn't."

"No, he doesn't. Come here," Canada tried to take New Zealand into his arms, hoping a hug would help somehow.

But New Zealand shook his head, stating, "He told me so. Canada, he doesn't like me at all."

Well, that certainly hadn't been what Canada was hoping for. He held New Zealand close, trying to puzzle out why Australia would say something like that. Australia had been through so much of the same things, hadn't he? Why on earth wasn't he sympathetic? "It'll be all right, you'll see."

"I don't think it will." New Zealand buried his nose into Canada's chest. He clearly wasn't seeing any silver lining of any kind in this situation.

Canada would have to talk to Australia. He had to know what was going on with these two.

* * *

Australia hadn't stopped thinking about New Zealand being forced into girls' clothes. It was peculiar, that he could understand that it was humiliating and painful, and yet still think that it wasn't enough. Half his heart felt bad about getting him in trouble; the other half bitterly whispered that England was favoring him.

It had been strange to watch. New Zealand had barely been all together before he was being stripped naked and forced into girls' underwear. It was unsettling, to say the least. But New Zealand was lucky; he hadn't been actually harmed, had he? So why was he crying the whole time anyway?

Maybe Australia would never understand.

"Australia! I need to talk to you." Canada appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, interrupting laundry time.

"Yes? What is it?" Australia hoped that it wasn't anything he wouldn't like to deal with. He would rather they talk about animals, or plans to live somewhere else.

"It's about New Zealand." And, oh, Canada was trying to look him in the eye, _understand_ him from the inside out. As if one could simply know someone by examining them closely with their eyes!

"What about him?" It was easy enough to pretend to be happy to talk about New Zealand; just raise the pitch of the question a bit, and it sounded happy. At least, that's what Australia figured. Canada didn't need to know about his jealousy.

Canada sighed, stating, "He said you called him a girl. And that you don't like him."

"So? He was in a dress, what else was I supposed to call him?" It was a stupid lie; Canada would never get off the topic now, and he would hate Australia forever if he figured out how he really felt about New Zealand! Anxiety clawed in Australia's gut, and he tried to change the topic. "Besides, I was just teasing; it isn't wrong to tease."

Disapproval was evident in Canada's tone. "That hurt him, you know." Silence followed. Canada started speaking again. "Why are you so mad at him? He's just a child."

"And a brat. That's why." Australia scrubbed vigorously at one of England's waistcoats, glaring at it as though it were the cause of all his problems. Why should Canada come here and try to mess things up by asking stupid questions?

"He's not a brat."

"Yes he is! He put mud in my shoes within days of first coming here; if that's not bratty, I don't know what is." And it was. Canada would believe that was all there was to it, wouldn't he?

No, he looked droopy instead. "Look, you should try to get along with him; he's new here, practically alone, he's probably scared. You didn't like being alone here, did you?"

New Zealand wasn't alone. But it looked as though Australia could wiggle his way out of this one. "Yes, I didn't. Fine, I'll try and get along better."

And Canada looked so satisfied with his negotiating skills, that it could probably inspire guilt in Australia. "Good. I'm glad we had this talk. I'll be back to help you make dinner, all right?"

"Yes, of course." Australia went back to scrubbing, as Canada left. New Zealand would pay for getting Canada asking questions; he would twist his ears until he couldn't hear. That would teach him to mess with Australia's only good thing.

* * *

England had been gone for a little while, and when he came back, it seemed he had brought something with him. "That Oriental had positively no idea who he was dealing with! Imagine, taking on me, the _British Empire_! Ha!"

Dark eyes stared at Canada, as he hung up England's coat. "England, who is this you've brought with you?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, of course." England pushed the child forward, stating overly clearly, "Tell him your name."

The tip of the child's ponytail immediately went into his mouth, as he stared back at Canada. Not a sound came out other than a slight sucking noise.

England heaved a small sigh, and went on to introduce the boy himself. "His name is Hong Kong, and I've taken him from China. Imagine, he's done nothing with the boy, when he could be a useful port!"

"Xiang gang," came the murmur from Hong Kong, who seemed quietly disconcerted with all of this.

Canada raised his eyebrows, saying, "Oh." Another child to look after, and a small one at that. It wasn't typical that England brought home, well… Orientals, or others based on non-European stock. He hoped this one would turn out all right.

"In any case, we could use a meal. I certainly hope you've made enough for two more." And England whisked by, heading for the dining room and leaving his poor young charge quite alone with a relative stranger.

Said child stared down at Canada's toes, chewing on his hair a little more fitfully.

"Hello, I'm Canada. Do you want to come in and eat?" Canada bent down to Hong Kong's level, hoping that he would warm up to him. He knew what it was like to be a small child in a strange place; it must be rather scary for Hong Kong.

Hong Kong backed away a bit, giving Canada a wide berth as he edged his way around him.

Canada might have laughed at the serious expression on his face had he not been sure it would scare the poor child. "It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you."

Suddenly, England returned, announcing, "I believe there's one matter I would like to get to before dinner. Hong Kong, come here."

The boy eyed him as though he were a different nation than from before, and promptly hid under the china cabinet. It was a wonder he even fit; his clothes must have made him appear bulkier than he really was.

England sputtered, "Hong Kong! We do not hide under cabinets! Get out here this instant!" When nothing happened, however, he turned to Canada with an imploring look.

Sighing, Canada crouched down on the floor, peering underneath the cabinet. He could make out the red fabric of Hong Kong's clothes, and his shining little eyes that watched him like a wounded animal watched predators. This would not be easy. "It's all right, you can come out; we're not going to hurt you, you know."

"I want China." It came out precisely, as though the phrase had been much practiced. Hong Kong had his head turned sideways, but he still managed to give Canada a strangely pleading look.

England knelt down, explaining, "You don't belong to China anymore; I own you. Now, come out or I will drag you out."

Canada winced at the unnecessary coldness of the statement, but he held out his hand to the boy. He waited, hoping that he would win the trust of Hong Kong.

A small hand gripped his, and a blinking, grim-mouthed child followed it. He looked over at England, then quickly looked away, shoving the clumpy ponytail into his mouth once again. It was as though he couldn't stand thinking of England too much.

England took the hand from Canada, which produced a small flurry of emotion on Hong Kong's face. He led him over to the kitchen, and produced a pair of shears. "Hold still; I don't want to cut you."

Hong Kong chewed more vigorously on his hair, staring at the picture on the wall in front of him.

Canada felt a worry began to niggle at his brain, and he spoke up. "England, what are you going to do? You don't want to scare him…"

"Do not tell me what I do and do not want," England said testily, seizing the base of Hong Kong's ponytail. He clicked the shears against each other, examining the mass of dark brown hair.

Hong Kong's chewing had gotten to a frenzied pace, and his hands were clenched tightly together. It was as though he knew what was coming, but hadn't the courage to fight it.

Canada felt he had to speak up in the boy's defense, ridiculous as such long hair was. "England, I think he might do better with this if you give him a chance to acclimate first; you're going to give him such a bad impression-"

"It's going to happen now, Canada. The sooner he learns to be properly civilized, the better." And the snip was loud, as England fished the hair out of Hong Kong's mouth and took it away.

Hong Kong stared straight ahead, but his eyes were wet, and when he blinked, they overflowed.

"Oh, England…" Canada could feel a horrible knot in the back of his throat at the sight. He hated to see children distressed this way; they were the ones who ought to be happy, like he was at their age.

England gave him a frown, tossing the hair into the waste bin. "He'll be fi-"

A keening wail cut him off, as all the emotion burst free from Hong Kong. The little boy was feeling at the back of his head, bending forward and bawling.

Canada was quick to sweep him up into his arms, cooing and trying to calm him. "No, no, it's all right, don't cry…" Of course, it did little to help. The boy had lost his source of comfort, and refused to stop crying.

England harrumphed, heading for the dining room. "When you quiet him down, you may both join us at dinner." It seemed he was done with this bout of parenting, after he had already caused the damage.

Rocking Hong Kong, Canada couldn't help but feel the slightest bit bitter at England. He'd just made a small child cry, not to mention it wasn't necessary to begin with. He felt Hong Kong try to push away, whimpering, "I want China, I want China, I want _China_!"

Well, what was he supposed to do, exactly? He wasn't a mother; he didn't understand little kids innately. So, carrying Hong Kong with him, he stood and started rubbing his back, walking forward and back the whole time. "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean…"

The song seemed to calm Hong Kong, so he carried on. "Tears from the depth of some divine despair, rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes…"

By the time he was done, Hong Kong was rather complacently leaning against him, feet poking against his thighs. He felt a bit of pride at being able to calm him with his singing voice, but quickly stuffed that down. It wasn't important right now. "Well, it's time we go eat, isn't it?"

Hong Kong nodded, fingers being sucked on so that he couldn't speak.

And so they entered the dining room, and things were peaceable for a while longer.

/AN/ Well, the song is a real Victorian song. I am not sure of which part of the Victorian era it's from though, so don't expect it to be of the right part! As for history, the First Opium Wars concluded in this year, 1842, at which time Hong Kong was ceded to the United Kingdom. China also concluded its Sino-Sikh war, but that's not really relevant.

Anyway, Hong Kong is so young in comparison to NZ and Aus because he's already been shown in canon to have been very young when he left with England. If you've seen the Christmas 2011 strips, then you know what I mean. Also, in the pictures, he had a ponytail and rather effeminate appearance as a child.

And don't worry about Australia; he will eventually grow out of his obsessiveness. NZ will survive, poor kiddo.


	27. Chapter 27

Ah, the lovely feeling of school being out! I have so much time to write that I have a hard time getting started. Anyway, enjoy this chapter! I've been having a great time writing this story, and I really appreciate you guys!

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

Hong Kong was extraordinarily stupid.

At least, that was the conclusion that Australia had reached. Right now, the child was eating the pages out of a book. A _book_. What kind of a little barbarian thought that was okay? He was torn between telling England and getting Hong Kong to stop. He settled for barking at him. "Hong Kong!"

Hong Kong's head darted up abruptly, tearing the page he'd been sucking on. His eyes searched Australia for a reason his snack time was interrupted.

"You're in big trouble." Australia watched as the news didn't seem to get through. He groaned, then gestured firmly towards the book. "That is _not_ food, Hong Kong."

"I'm hungry," Hong Kong defended, turning his brown eyes on Australia.

Australia was about to continue in his reprimand, but, damn it… those eyes were awfully big for an Oriental. They just seemed to catch one's attention and hold it there. Australia bit his lip a moment, then said, with a sigh, "We'd better hide this, okay?"

Hong Kong nodded, and closed the book, holding it up towards Australia. He seemed trusting, not even bothering to look behind him and see if England was about.

If Australia had been him, he would have been more wary. But now was not the time to quibble; the book was quickly hidden in the back of the bookshelf, and Australia gave a sigh of relief. England would never have to know, and even if he did find it, he would never know who did it.

Hong Kong sat on Australia's foot, wrapping his limbs around his leg. "Gimme food," he said, staring up at him with those big brown eyes.

Well, he pretty much had to, didn't he? Hong Kong was just too small to know better… not like New Zealand. He would tell on that little snot in a second. Australia dragged his Hong Kong-laden foot along, telling him, "You can eat something, but don't tell England, understand?"

"Mm… yes. I know." Hong Kong gave him a tighter squeeze, seemingly delighted at the gift of a snack.

Australia couldn't quite explain the difference between Hong Kong and New Zealand easily, besides the age and general appearance. Both were newcomers who had no idea what they were doing; both had a knack for trouble, in his opinion. Maybe it was something one couldn't measure that made them different.

As he made it into the kitchen, he took an apple out of a sack, and handed it to Hong Kong. That ought to keep him.

But it seemed it wasn't satisfactory. Hong Kong wrinkled up his face and pushed it back into Australia's hand. "No. Yuck. I need to drink tea."

Tea? A child his age wanted tea? Well, he'd probably want lots of sugar and cream in it, wouldn't he? "I suppose I can put on the kettle," Australia said, moving to fill the metal vessel. If Hong Kong wanted tea, who was he to deny him?

"And dim sum."

"What?" 'Dim sum?' What on earth was 'dim sum,' anyway? Perplexed, Australia pumped the water into the kettle and tried to figure out what foreign dish this might be. "We don't have dim sum, Hong Kong."

Hong Kong let out a whine, insisting, "I want dim sum! I never had enough before!" And he threw himself back and off of Australia's leg and kicked his feet in the air.

"You can have biscuits, you like those, don't you?" Australia put the kettle to boil, busily getting out a teapot and nearly tripping over Hong Kong. That little kid was one wiggly critter.

Instead of calming down, Hong Kong spit vehemently on the floor. "Bleh."

Well, that certainly didn't get the reaction Australia had hoped for. He opened the biscuit jar, taking one out and waving it under Hong Kong's nose. "It has sugar, you weird little bugger. You're supposed to like it."

Hong Kong took a bite out of the biscuit, and lay back, rubbing his eyes. After a couple of moments, he leaned up to take another bite, and then another.

He was like a cute animal, even though he could talk. Australia couldn't but feel a corner of his mouth twitch into a half-smile. "Go on, take it. Then you can have tea."

The child took it with both hands, as though afraid he would drop the precious treat. He crammed it all in his mouth, eyes busily following Australia. He expected another biscuit, Australia was sure.

Australia liked that he could tell these things with Hong Kong. He was easy enough to understand, if you tried. He didn't know why England was always arguing with him; it was about as stupid as arguing with a dog. Little kids were just like animals, he'd decided. You had to use actions to show, not just spit a bunch of meaningless words at them.

As he sat down at the kitchen table, Hong Kong crawled over to his feet, trying to look inconspicuous while watching his every move for the slightest twitch towards the biscuit jar.

"If you sit, I'll get you another one," Australia promised, pulling the biscuit jar down from its perch on the shelves.

Hong Kong sat obediently, licking his lips as he watched him dig into the jar.

Australia grinned, feeding him the cookie and patting him on the head. See? If England just rewarded Hong Kong every so often, he'd do what he was told, no problem. He was as trainable as any puppy.

Hong Kong chewed noisily on the biscuit, occasionally lapsing in manners to accidently show Australia just how chewed up his food was. It was all right, though; he was young and he would learn.

The tea kettle whistled, and Australia went to remove it from the heat, but his mind was bursting with the possibilities; Hong Kong could learn anything from him at this age! He grinned again, and reached down and petted Hong Kong's head once more.

Hong Kong obliviously licked his hands in hopes of getting crumbs; he had no idea how far he was going to come.

* * *

Canada didn't know what he had expected the day would be like, but it certainly wasn't this. A minor complaint was that all the biscuits were gone and he'd have to bake more; the major one happened a little later in the day, as he was mixing batter.

"Canada!"

The scream startled him out of his thoughts of somehow acquiring maple syrup to mix in the batter, and he looked up to see New Zealand come hurtling towards him. He only narrowly caught him with his free arm, and the child immediately scrambled to try and get behind him. "New Zealand! What's wrong?"

There could only be one thing wrong, though, and New Zealand was quick to confirm Canada's suspicions. "I didn't mean to, Canada, it's just it's really messy now, and oh lord I don't want to wear the dress, Canada, I don't want to wear the dress!" And he promptly began to cry, clinging tightly to the side of Canada's shirt.

Canada put the batter on the kitchen table, using that arm to wrap around New Zealand. "Shush, it's all right… we'll clean up the mess and-"

"New Zealand! You get your arse back in here _right now_!" England's raging call seemed to shake the house, as pounding footsteps came storming towards the kitchen door.

Canada could only give a brief 'what have I gotten myself into' prayer before England came bursting in.

New Zealand shrank and tried to hide behind Canada, holding on as though he thought he would be dragged off by wolves otherwise.

"England, there's been a misunderstan-"

Canada was cut off by England, who snapped, "Canada! I do not have the patience for your meddling! Let go of him and let me deal with his defiance."

"I just broke it on accident," New Zealand said tremulously, burying his face in Canada's back and dampening the shirt with his hot tears.

Canada tried to set things straight, saying calmly and carefully, "England, whatever happened, you don't need to get all worked up about it; we can clean up the mess. And then, when the dust's settled-"

England lurched forward, grabbing hold of New Zealand and trying to pry him off of Canada. "Shut your gob and stop with this mindless prattle! I am dealing with his wrong-doing the way I see fit, a proper spanking and then the dress!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" New Zealand shrieked, fists tightly clenching in Canada's shirt as he held on for dear life.

Canada, however, threw his arms tightly around New Zealand. Heaven knew that spanking meant beating in this house. "No, you won't!"

"I'm quite sorry, I believe I've misheard you. Are you defying _me_?" The angry tone indicated otherwise, but England was giving him a chance to back out. His burning green glare seemed intent on making him cower away and let him take the child.

"You heard it all right, _sir_." Canada glared back, but his insides were quaking like a jelly. Good lord, he was going to be killed, wasn't he?

England seemed just about ready to bite Canada's face off. "You will let go of New Zealand this instant!"

New Zealand seemed like he was choking on his own sobs, trying desperately to keep them in and not draw too much attention to himself.

"I won't!" Canada snapped back. He was tired of seeing England destroy everyone around him; he wasn't afraid of the consequences in the moment, despite the thrill adding a chilly tremor to his hands. Someone needed to say something, and by George, he wasn't going to just stand by this time! "You won't lay a finger on him!"

England sputtered for words. It was evident this wasn't quite what he'd counted on. "You- you! _I'm_ the empire! You can't do this!" England's hands clenched into fists and raised, as though he were prepared to strike Canada.

New Zealand gave a whimper, scared sockless of England.

Canada just clenched his arms around New Zealand, and winced for the blow. He was tough enough for this, no matter what England did.

The blow didn't come. Canada opened his eyes to see England standing there, furious and eyes green embers of anger, but he wasn't doing anything. "Don't think I'll forget this," England hissed.

And it was over, wasn't it? It hit Canada like a load of bricks. He'd stood up to _England_ and the empire had had to listen. It was a strange feeling, twisting in his chest and becoming lighter and lighter. He'd done it.

It was only as England left, without another word, that he noticed a figure standing in the doorway from outside.

Australia's eyes took in the scene, astutely adding things up. Then they narrowed. "Fucking bastard."

Canada was a little confused. Who was he referring to? "Australia… Is something wrong?"

Australia's face morphed into an ugly raging mask, as he spat out, increasing in volume as he spoke. "You bastard. It's his eyes, isn't it? It's his cute little damn face, isn't it? Little piece of shite!"

New Zealand was watching with wide eyes, which were quickly watering up in the face of Australia's anger.

Dumbfounded, Canada stared for a moment, before saying, "What? Australia, what does his face have to do with anything? This isn't something to be mad about-"

"Like hell it isn't! Poor baby New Zealand, he comes crying and you practically fight off England with a mixing spoon! Like hell I should be happy!" Australia yelled in the last sentence, fists clenched and face red.

Canada was being shouted at, and normally, he would be patient, but damnit, Australia was being so difficult! What was there to be mad about? "_What is wrong with you_? He's your brother! You should be glad he's not being beaten within an inch of his life!"

"He's not my _brother_! And neither are you! In fact, I don't care whether you go home or not! Just get the hell out of here and everyone stop ruining my life!" And Australia slammed the door, aurally battering Canada's ear drums.

What the hell had gotten into Australia? It seemed like he had changed too much to understand anymore. Canada stroked New Zealand's hair, murmuring, "It's all right; he doesn't understand what he's saying."

New Zealand looked up at Canada, and shook his head. "He just hates everybody; he's mean."

And Canada wasn't sure how to respond to that.

* * *

How could Canada do something like that for New Zealand and not for him? Australia bitterly kicked a plant, snapping the stalk and dooming it to die. Just like the relationship he had just killed.

Lord, why did he do things like that? But no, it was Canada's fault; he was the one who liked New Zealand better, even though Australia had known him longer. Even though Australia had actually loved him back.

He hated New Zealand right now; if he caught him alone, he would surely kick that stupid brat until he promised to stop talking to Canada.

But that wasn't right… was it? England hit and beat and spanked when he was angry; why shouldn't Australia get a turn? Why shouldn't he have someone to hit when he felt like it?

It was painful, though. But New Zealand deserved to be hurt, didn't he?

Australia buried his face in his hands. He just didn't know what he was supposed to do now; the rules never seemed to apply with Canada. It wasn't as easy as just saying please and thank you to get in his good graces.

But he wanted to be, even though he said… lord, he said that Canada wasn't his brother. That just wasn't fixable. He'd cut himself off from everyone- even though it was Canada's fault- but it wasn't.

Australia growled and punched a tree, not particularly caring about how it cut his knuckles. Why were things so complex? He just wasn't good at complex.

Everything came easily to New Zealand; he'd just come waltzing in and Canada loved him. He'd even managed to avoid being punished the way Australia had been. Wearing a dress was a punishment for weak little flower boys. Australia was a cactus; resilient and able to go without for a long time.

He scrubbed at his eyes. That was right; he was a cactus, prickly and lonely. Only England would care to guide him now.

What had he done?

* * *

Dinner was silent, and the tension was thicker than an elephant's hide.

Canada could feel England's accusing stare on him every so often, and the sapped expression of Australia haunted him. It was as though nothing could be done to restore his spirit.

The worst part was that he didn't understand why he was so angry; he knew he didn't like New Zealand, but to be mad that he didn't get punished? To be angry that Canada had dared to stand up for him? It was self-centered, at the least, and Canada didn't understand how he had gotten to be that way.

Hong Kong was flying under the radar, at least, seated in the kitchen to eat after three times of picking up his food with his hands. And it didn't seem to bother him in the least; every so often, Canada heard him making ching sounds with his glass and silverware.

New Zealand was miserably seated next to Australia, who would pinch him every so often and make him cry out quietly. England did nothing to stop Australia, apparently trying to make up for him not getting punished the way he had planned.

"So, Canada, I presume you have business back home?" England said, cutting his beef into delicate little pieces.

"Business is all right back home; I plan on staying on for a while longer." It was a game, a civilly worded one. England wanted him gone, but until Canada could be sure things would be all right, he couldn't leave.

England frowned in displeasure. "I see. You don't suppose you're being a burden at this time?"

"I would suppose not; I do a large amount of housework around here. I earn my keep." Canada took a bite out of the beef, chewing the tough meat vigorously.

"You don't suppose you upset the boys?" England was speaking ever so very calmly, but his eyes travelled over towards Australia and New Zealand, who had just been pinched once more and therefore looked like someone had just put dirt on his food.

"I don't suppose I do." Canada put down his fork, done with his meal for now. He couldn't stomach it when he thought of the mess between him and the rest of the household. Not that English-style food was that easy to stomach anyhow.

"I see." And England was letting it go for now; he would make things miserable for Canada.

And Canada didn't doubt it. Things were about to get a whole lot worse.

/AN/ Well, historically, not much goes on during this time period for these countries.

I do hope you guys forgive Australia for his behavior, eventually. I do love the kid, as much as I put him through hell. Anyway, I plan on updating soon; it just took a little while to put this together.


	28. Chapter 28

Ah well, it's summer. Fanfiction-wise, I don't like this season, but otherwise it's pretty fine and dandy. Enjoy this chapter!

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

Canada loved to be up this early; everyone, even England, was still in their beds. It gave him time to think, to mull over the twisting turns of his life.

Australia refused to speak to him. Or rather, whenever he tried to corner him, he always found a way to slip away. He was a slippery child- young adult. He was practically his own man at this point.

It concerned Canada lot. Would he take the same route as America? It didn't seem likely; he'd never seen anyone more attached to England since America. It was as though Australia couldn't don a pair of stockings without making sure that England was around and approved.

Canada got out a large bowl and ingredients for bread, feeling that dread that always crept up on him when he thought about England. The other boot had yet to fall decisively; that wasn't to say that New Zealand didn't get thoroughly ruffled and pushed about throughout the day. No, the poor lad was always being slighted, if not by England, then by Australia.

It had only been the other day that he'd caught Australia holding poor New Zealand by his ankles over the well. It was a wonder he hadn't heard the poor lad screaming sooner. As soon as he'd shown up, Australia had glared at him and thrown his younger brother back onto the safety of the grass. Then he'd stomped off without another word.

Sighing, Canada mixed the wet ingredients, setting the yeast aside to grow in its little bowl of warm sugar water. How was he supposed to contend with Australia's moodiness? He couldn't get a word out of him, much less calm him and make him stop being so cruel to New Zealand.

At least he hadn't harmed Hong Kong. The Oriental followed him around like a puppy many days, to the point where Canada was certain he'd seen the boy doing tricks for biscuits. He hoped it was just his imagination.

Pouring together the flour and wet ingredients, Canada went to work, knowing that it was a minor problem to beat the contents into dough compared to his relationships. If New Zealand got up soon, he supposed he'd have him help with the bread; anyone else was out of the question.

The door opened, and when not a word was spoken in greeting, Canada knew who it was. "There's some bread left, and some jam in the pantry. That's supposing you want some."

Australia's green eyes looked him over, before sharply looking away and moodily shuffling towards the pantry.

Fine, Canada thought. Feel free to ignore me. Just stop taking it out on that poor boy! He said nothing, though.

The door swung open again, and Hong Kong appeared in all his nightshirted glory. "Aus, I want jam."

And here was where the miracle took place, the only human qualities Australia seemed to show lately. He half-smiled, and got the jar down from its high perch. "Only if you do what I showed you."

And Hong Kong promptly turned a somersault. "Aus, gimme jam now."

"Just wait a moment; I'm going to put it on some bread." Australia did as he said he would, spreading over some of the remaining bread, and handing it to Hong Kong. He did the rest of the bread for himself.

Canada might have intervened in this strange relationship had he had any standing with Australia. He figured England would take care of that, though, if he ever noticed that Hong Kong would do tricks for treats.

He gave the dough a hefty whump, setting to kneading it in the bowl. It was a good way to take out his frustration, on something inanimate.

The door opened partway, and New Zealand's head peeked through. Once he saw that Canada was there, he let himself in all the way, and went to lift a box of eggs from the pantry. "Can we have eggs?" he asked, glancing over at Australia and quickly away, though his question was clearly directed at Canada.

"Yes, we can make eggs; knead the dough and I'll set to work on the eggs, all right?" Canada took the eggs from New Zealand, leaving him the dough.

The youngster set to work enthusiastically, and despite his small amount of muscle, was making some progress.

Canada only turned his back for a moment before the screaming began.

"Australia!" He turned his furious purple eyes on the boy, who glared back sullenly and tucked away his slingshot. New Zealand held his eye, and Canada saw a cork rolling away on the floor.

Hong Kong was quick to snap up the retreating cork.

Canada gently lifted New Zealand's fingers away from his eye, and discovered that while the area was red, the eyeball did not appear to be damaged. "You can still see me, can't you?"

"Mhm," New Zealand said tearfully, though he was trying to cover up the fact that he had been crying already. He wiped at both his eyes and tried to puff out his chest.

"Australia…" Canada turned on Australia once more, and lord, he wanted to slap the boy. He wanted to get some sense into his head, show him what pain he brought to New Zealand… "You foul little cur!"

Australia fell back out of his chair, eyes wide. "You're not the master of me!" He snapped, though it was high-pitched and he was holding up an arm to protect himself.

And the situation seemed exaggerated to Canada. Until he realized he had raised his hand to strike Australia, the offending limb still high in the air. Lord, was he the sort of person who went around hitting people he couldn't deal with? He instantly felt guilty, despite still being angry, and dropped his arm. "I'm not going to hit you."

"You didn't scare me!" Australia scrambled to his feet, but he still kept distance between them. It was as though he really didn't trust Canada not to hit him, now that he'd looked like he might.

Good lord, Canada was not a bully. And he didn't like being perceived that way. "I'm sorry. But, damn it, Australia, you need to leave New Zealand alone!"

"I don't!" Australia snapped back, eyes shutting and closing rapidly. It was as though he was trying to keep from… oh lord, the boy was crying.

Canada didn't like to see him cry. He never had; but the fact that he was so upset didn't mean he could just let his bullying go on. "Australia… He's as scared and small as you were when you first came here. You can't treat him this way; he's just like you! Don't you understand that?"

Australia breathed heavily through his mouth, teeth clenched clearly clenched together tightly as he sent a look of hatred towards New Zealand. "He is not the same as me. He will never be the same as me!"

"How is he not the same? He's as much a target for England's bullying as you are!" Canada stood in front of New Zealand, cutting off the hateful glare. Lord, he wanted to protect that child as much as he'd always wanted to protect Australia.

"England's not a bully, he's just trying to make us work right!" It looked as though Australia wasn't even sure of what he was saying; in any case, he carried on. "New Zealand needs to be punished, because he's worse than I was! He's a horrible little brat, and if he's not punished, he'll stay that way!"

Hong Kong promptly started to cry, apparently unable to take the anger in the room.

However, the cogs were turning in Canada's head. He took a step towards Australia, careful not to scare him backwards. "You want him to be punished because you were punished, don't you?"

He'd seen too straight into Australia's soul; the boy's mouth opened and closed, sputtering for a moment, before he managed, "That's not true; he deserves it. He has to be punished-"

"Australia." Canada carefully placed one hand on the side of Australia's head, feeling his heart sink a little at the nervous way the boy's eyes stared at his wrist like he could crush his head like a large strawberry at any moment.

"Stop it! This isn't funny; this is about New Zealand, and you can't just pretend he's not a brat, and he's bad all the time, and he's… he's eating too much food, and… and…" Australia wasn't fighting away. He was blinking a lot, but his eyes had turned towards the ground, unable to look at Canada.

Canada wrapped his other arm around Australia, murmuring, "Don't you know by now that life isn't a game where you tick up points and everyone's must be even by the end? Just because you were hurt doesn't mean you should hurt other people."

Australia's face was pressed against Canada's shoulder, so he couldn't see what expression he was making. "But it's not fair, Canada, it's not fair! He's so much smaller, and softer and nicer than I am!"

"Life isn't fair, Australia. We can just make the best of what we have, instead of coveting everyone else's lot." He held him tight, feeling like he'd got back the boy who'd been missing all this time.

Tear-clogged and squeaky, the fear finally leaked out of Australia. "I'm bad. I'm a bad person; that's why you'll love him and not me, not ever again…" And Australia shook against Canada, as he felt his shoulder getting wet.

The pieces fell into place for Canada. He must see so much of his younger self in New Zealand; why else would he fear losing Canada to him? "You're not bad; you were never bad. And I'll always love you. No one else could show up and take your place. Not New Zealand, not Hong Kong, not America."

Australia sniffled, arms tightly clinging to Canada, as though afraid he would be lost otherwise, to the murky depths of the world.

Canada felt a flare of anger, that he was the only person Australia felt he had, when there should be a stable parent for him, but he put that aside. He let Australia calm down, giving him several minutes to stop sniffling and hiccuping. Then he let him go.

"I'm sorry." Australia had both his hands behind his back, and was barely keeping eye contact with him.

"I know." Canada gave him a half smile, but then took on a more solemn expression. "But there's someone who deserves an apology more than I do." He turned to look at New Zealand, who was watching this all with an apprehensive expression on his face.

Australia's face scrunched up a bit, and he scuffed the floor with his heavy shoes. But it didn't take a pointed look from Canada to get him to do it; he turned towards New Zealand. "I am sorry I did all those nasty things to you. Will you, um. Will you forgive me?"

New Zealand nodded hastily, probably expecting retribution if he didn't.

Canada smiled, giving a sigh that at least this was over. He ruffled first Australia's hair, and then New Zealand's, saying, "Now that that's over, let's get to bread making and then the laundry, shall we?"

Hong Kong toddled over and did a somersault.

Canada decided to leave the training-Hong-Kong issue for another time.

* * *

So, New Zealand was digging in his garden; so, why should Australia get mad?

He'd apologized to him only the day before. He shouldn't explode and ruin everything. He _couldn't_ explode and ruin everything; something told him that Canada's good and soft heart could only take so much.

But that didn't stop him from storming over and looking down on New Zealand with a dark, low brow. "New Zealand."

The boy froze, like a bug hoping its camouflage would protect it from view. "…yes?"

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Australia had his arms crossed over his chest, as he let the anger radiate around him. Just enough to scare New Zealand; he wouldn't actually hurt him.

But New Zealand promptly began to cry, wiping at his face and smudging dirt all over it. "I knew you lied- you lied to Canada. You're gonna hurt me, I know you are!"

Australia frowned deeper, saying, "I'm not a liar." How dare New Zealand accuse him of that! Usually, he would shrug aside the boy's tears, but now they were a little unsettling. Canada didn't like that he made New Zealand upset; he had to patch things up.

"Yes, you are! You're just a mean, wicked old goat!" New Zealand's hands covered his mouth as soon as he said it. He backed away from his hole, knocking over a can that turned out to be full of worms. "I'm not scared of you," he whimpered, hands up in half-formed fists in front of himself.

Giving a great groan, Australia dropped his arms from their folded position. "I'm not going to hurt you, all right? Just… just stop digging in my garden."

Since he hadn't moved towards him, New Zealand seemed to relax a little bit. But only so much. His eyes were still searching Australia's body for signs of aggression. "I just needed worms, for fishing."

New Zealand thought he could hike all the way to the pond? Well, in the old days, Australia would have just let him do it and then tell on him; but he'd promised to change, so he murmured, "You shouldn't go too far away. You'll get in trouble if you go as far as the pond." Then he crouched down and began refilling the hole.

Apparently, New Zealand couldn't think of much to say. It turned out to be stunned silence, as the incredulous tone conveyed in the next moment. "Why are you telling me this? Is this a trick?"

"No, it's not a trick." Australia didn't look up, willing New Zealand to just leave and stop making this whole situation awkward. So he didn't normally help New Zealand; it didn't mean he had to act like he was a monster who would do anything to hurt… well, he didn't need to act like he could never do a nice thing.

He could hear New Zealand shuffling his feet against the crumbly earth. "But why?"

Australia let out a sigh; it looked as though he was going to have to explain himself. "Well, you see… I lo- really like Canada." Love was just too awkward a word to use around New Zealand. "I don't like him to be disappointed in me. So, that's all. It's not like I like you now or anything like that."

"Really?" The voice was quiet. It was almost as though New Zealand had taken this as a confession that he did care for him and would never do anything bad to him again.

Australia turned to correct him, but stopped short.

New Zealand's face was swiftly turning pink, and he was scrunching up his eyes; in short, he was going to cry.

"Oh no, don't…" Australia almost growled it, kicking the rest of the dirt into the hole hurriedly. What was he supposed to do if New Zealand was _crying_? Sure, he himself had cried, but that didn't mean he was trained in the art of dealing with other people's feelings! "Please, don't."

A high-pitched little sob, "I'm sorry," escaped from New Zealand, as he quickly covered up his face. It seemed he was the emotional sort; Australia was sure he had never been this girlish.

Should he direct him to Canada? Yes, that seemed like a good idea. He had nothing to fear, he reminded himself. "Go find Canada and cry on him."

After protesting that he was 'not crying,' New Zealand gave up on trying to pretend otherwise and ran for the house. The door slammed shut behind him, and left Australia in peace.

Australia wasn't sure how to feel. Mostly, he felt annoyed. So he got to his hands and knees and began vigorously weeding the garden, murmuring all the while to himself about how New Zealand really was an annoying little ankle-biter.

Hopefully this would never happen again.

* * *

Canada nearly screamed when he found himself yanked out of bed early in the morning; he'd nearly fallen down, only narrowly keeping from knocking his skull against the floor. "What? What's going on- England?"

The empire scowled at him, eyes level with his as gripped the front of his nightshirt. "You should have known better than to cross me; you should have known you would pay."

Wrenching free, Canada shook his head. "I don't regret what I did; nothing you could ever do would make me." His fingers itched to clench into fists; was England going to try to beat him, after all these years and when their sizes were so similar?

However, his question was answered when a suitcase hit him in the stomach. England's cold-furious eyes simply stared down on him imperiously. "Pack."

He should have known this would happen, Canada supposed. In the grey-barely-there light of morning, of course England would make him steal away without a word of goodbye or I love you. But he wasn't going, not as far as he could dig his heels into the floor and fight against leaving at step of the way. "No."

And England's eyes turned from cold to heated, as he practically snarled, "You are leaving this instant, and nothing you say or do is going to change my mind!" It was strange, to see him switch so easily from cool and collected to snarling-mad, but perhaps the defiance had unsettled him.

Canada, of course, was not afraid of England's anger, however much the back of his mind was screaming at him that the empire was going to knock him in the head at any moment. "I won't. And you can't make me."

"I can't- _I_ can't make _you_?" It was unusual, for England to have so much anger in his voice but such a low volume. His eyebrows dropped dangerously, as he hissed, "Can't I? Canada, do you suppose you can be everywhere at once? I may not be able to beat you into submission, but who's to say someone else can't be substituted for you?"

A cold shock went through Canada; why hadn't he realized what a risk Australia and New Zealand were at? He grasped for words, and spit out, "I'll watch them. All the time; you'll never get them away from me."

England sneered, saying, "Well, aren't you a regular mother hen. No, I didn't expect you would understand the concept; but Canada, can you be awake around the clock? Can you really deny yourself sleep every night just to watch that not a hair on their heads is mussed up? You'll drive yourself insane, and then I'll have you locked away someplace reserved for malcontents and soft-headed morons."

Canada could feel his ability to stay slipping through his hands. He couldn't leave now! What about Australia, and how terribly fragile his heart was right now? What about New Zealand, and his safety from both England and Australia? What about Hong Kong, who could easily be neglected in wake of his departure? "Please, they need me-"

"Ha!" England's bark of laughter was cruel and sliced through the air like a saber through some unsuspecting animal. "Please, I am most capable of raising children; look at how behaved Australia is. New Zealand and Hong Kong will soon follow in his footsteps without _you_ around. Now, will you go, or do I have to resort to unsavory measures?"

He was going to cry, damn it all! Damn England and his pompous, dangerous attitudes; damn this setup where one nation had control over numbers of others. Canada fumbled with his dresser drawers, blindly shoving articles of clothing into his suitcase.

The most terrifying part was that his leaving in no way guaranteed their safety; it would most likely only delay it. But what was he supposed to do? He had no doubt England would take out his anger on the children more if he stayed. He feared a grave injury, or even a crippling one. Lord knew England could inflict more than the stripes criss-crossing Australia's back already.

"Shall we? I don't expect we should wake the boys; they do so need their sleep."

Canada followed England, feeling his heart fall out on the floor and stay behind. He couldn't do this again… but he must. So he dragged his feet onward, able to feel the distance between himself and his loved ones stretching further and further as they exited the foyer.

There, England helped load him into a waiting hansom cab, tucking money into his pocket. "See that you make it over there; I don't want to see your face again any time soon."

And the hansom cab headed off, at a speed inordinate for that time of the morning. Canada refused to cry; he would be back someday.

* * *

It was too quiet.

Australia knew something was wrong as soon as he made his way out of his room. The only noise he could make out, throughout the whole house, was England's pen scritching against the paper in his work room.

Dread pooled in his stomach; what had happened that he couldn't hear Canada up and about in the kitchen downstairs?

A quick check of Canada's room furthered his fear; the dresser drawers hung open, empty. The truth confronted Australia brutally; Canada was gone.

His knees felt like they were quaking; no, not so soon after he'd got him back. Not so soon as he had sorted things out and had promised to behave. A keening cry broke free from him, as he screamed at the empty room, at the Canada who should have been there.

He threw himself at the bedding, throwing it off the bed in a whirlwind of fury. He couldn't be alone, he couldn't stuck here with Canada across an ocean!

The desperate hope entered him that Canada had moved rooms, simply desiring a change. He ran from room to room, startling New Zealand awake and scaring the socks off of Hong Kong. Nothing, no one, not the one he wanted!

He threw himself into England's office, anger and fear emboldening him. "Where's Canada?"

England placed his signature on a piece of paperwork, replying, "He's gone home. He was only a guest for a limited amount of time, Australia."

A sudden, irrational fear struck him; England had made Canada go, hadn't he? He'd dragged him out the door in the middle of the night and got rid of him! "What did you do? Where is he?" he snarled at England, marching across the room, finger pointing accusingly at him.

England was up and out from behind his desk in a superhuman flash. He caught Australia by the throat, slamming him against the wall. "I would suggest you control your _tone_ with me, _Australia_."

Australia gagged, feeling his air rather abruptly cut off. Lord, he was going to die! His breath whistled through the opening allowed in his throat, and fear spread through all of him like a disease. "…sorry…sorry!" he rasped, barely managing it past England's hand.

He was allowed to breath again.

England looked down on him severely, stating, "Canada was a problem here; he interfered with my discipline. You saw he did that, did you not?"

"Yes…" Australia massaged his throat, watching England like a cornered animal, afraid he would strike again.

"In any case, we had words, and he agreed to leave. Most likely, he realized he couldn't continue with his resistance without there being severe consequences." England's eyes flicked over towards his desk. "You need not concern yourself with his leaving."

Australia suppressed a protest. He was _alone_; he couldn't afford to put himself in danger again. If he'd kept control of his head, he would have realized that and mourned Canada's departure quietly. "Yessir."

"Now. Go make the children breakfast. I sense they are getting hungry." England returned to his desk, effectively dismissing Australia.

Australia turned to leave, and found himself facing New Zealand and Hong Kong, who hung in the doorway.

New Zealand's eyes with wide and fearful, as he whispered, "But Canada can't be gone…"

Australia seized his arm and quickly directed him away. Canada wouldn't want him to get in trouble; so, that was his job now. To be Canada.

Hong Kong toddled after them, wiping sleep out of his eyes and obliviously begging for breakfast. He would eventually realize that Canada was gone for good, not for the morning or the day. Australia didn't have the heart to explain it further.

"Come with me. We'll make breakfast." He grabbed New Zealand and Hong Kong's hands, leading them along.

He could only wonder how long he would be able to keep New Zealand out of harm's way.

/AN/ Well, I hope the wait was worth it. I got so stuck on this chapter! It sucked grapes, man. Anyway, no significant history went on for these countries during this time. Next chapter ought to be more interesting… Plus, one of the countries of the British Isles will show up!


	29. Chapter 29

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

I don't own Hetalia! end/AN/

It hadn't been the first time, but it astonished Australia just as much, if not more, than before.

England's flag lay on the ground, from where it usually hung above the mantel. And Australia would have done something about it, except, England was standing right there, eyes speaking murder towards New Zealand.

"You little bugger! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you like being punished?" England looked as though were imagining the paddle in his hand, from the way his fist clenched.

New Zealand's chest was puffing in and out rapidly, as he tried to look brave. "You can't just tell me what to do all the time, sir, I'm practically a nation in my own right-"

"I don't really care! Pick it up right now!" England's face looked like it was going to burst, turning red the way it was.

"No! I won't!" New Zealand was angry too, but there was that quiver of fear in his posture.

Australia wanted to speak up. It was his job to protect New Zealand while Canada was gone; at this rate, New Zealand was going to get his hide tanned so hard he wouldn't be able to sit for weeks. But could he stand up to England? Every other time had ended in disaster…

England's lips were pressed tightly together, as though he were trying to keep from screaming at the boy. "New Zealand, I will whip your hide if you don't get that flag off of the floor!"

"Well, you're going to have to!" New Zealand was pale as a sheet, and Australia was sure his lower lip was trembling; yet here he was, the David to England's Goliath.

He was stupid.

Australia gingerly picked up Hong Kong, who was watching this all raptly, fingers shoved in his mouth. Sometimes, Australia suspected he'd only been barely weaned off the teat, and that was why he sucked his fingers and sleeves so much.

England looked as though he was going to seize New Zealand by the scruff of his neck, taking a huge step forward and reaching out. But no, instead he picked up his flag and tacked it back up above the mantel. "Get out of here before I beat you senseless, boy."

The words were dangerous, and New Zealand seemed to recognize this, skittering out without a word.

Australia could only wonder why England was putting up with this flag business so relatively well. Ever since Canada had left, he hadn't raised a hand against any of them. True, he hadn't exactly been as stern as he used to be to begin with; but something was strange about him.

He was cursing under his breath now, and Australia decided now would be a good time to leave. Just because he didn't take it out on New Zealand didn't mean he wouldn't take it out on him.

* * *

Hong Kong was a sweetheart, Australia had decided that long ago. He didn't quite toddle, at his age, though he did often walk about with his infant belly protruding. England said that was just how some children around his age were.

At this point, he was huddled under the kitchen table with Australia's mixing spoon in his mouth. And despite the fact that he needed the spoon, Australia wasn't getting angry. Those brown eyes staring back at him seemed oblivious to any wrong doing anyway.

"Hello there…" he murmured, crouching down next to the table.

Hong Kong nodded, batter coating his lips and making him the picture of childish disobedience.

"So… What are you doing with that spoon?" Australia felt it was best to take it slow with Hong Kong, rather than just snapping at him. He was younger than New Zealand, too little to know any better. Besides, he was also an Oriental; according to England, they didn't learn all the important things he had. They were heathens.

Hong Kong said, around the spoon, "Eating good food."

And Australia had to admit, biscuit dough was 'good food'; at least, it tasted good. He wasn't sure how good it was for a person. He held out his hand, saying, "Please give me that spoon; I need it for the cookies."

It seemed Hong Kong found this unreasonable, because he shook his head, turned away and clutched the spoon with both hands. "Nnh-uh. It's mine."

"Give it here, or I'll pull it out." All right, so he was only so cute; besides, it wasn't like Australia said he was going to smack him. He was just taking back the spoon. His hand reached further, almost far enough to grab the spoon.

Hong Kong let out a whine, and tried to scramble away.

But Australia was too quick for that, and caught the end of the spoon. A tug of war ensued, in which Hong Kong's teeth were tightly clenched on the spoon and Australia dug his feet in and pulled.

"Give it here! Hong Kong!"

"Nnnnn!" Hong Kong seemed upset, holding onto the table leg to keep from being pulled away.

But then Australia said the fatal words. "You won't get any biscuits if you don't give me this spoon!"

Almost instantly, the spoon was released, and Australia almost fell on his bum. He smoothed back his hair, trying to make it look like he hadn't been fighting with a small child, and stuck the spoon back into the dough. "Good boy. You'll get a treat after I finish making them, all right?"

The reply was cut off by a cry of, "What the hell is this?"

England. And he was in the parlor, by the sound of it. Australia murmured, "Stay here," to Hong Kong, and headed for England. It had to be something New Zealand had done… in all seriousness, he couldn't have thrown the flag down for the _third_ time, could he?

Apparently he could. There was the British flag in all its glory, draped on the floor.

"I tacked it up with nails! How is he doing this?" England was furious, gesturing towards the flag and looking at Australia. There were indeed little tears where the nails had once held the piece of cloth up; New Zealand must have stood on the mantel and pulled it down.

Australia wasn't sure what to say. "He's too young to know better." Which he didn't feel was true, but he had to say something to save New Zealand's hide. If not for New Zealand himself, then he would at least do it for Canada.

"He most certainly is not! Damn it, where is the little rotter?" England turned to crash off up the stairs, and surely to drag New Zealand out by the hair.

He was saved from this trip by New Zealand himself showing up, eyes all innocent and hands clutching a toy soldier. There was no chance to explain himself.

"You! Over here, now!" England barked, pointing to a spot next to his heel.

New Zealand came over, but not quickly. He was clearly defiant, not afraid.

It made Australia afraid for him. "Sir, he really doesn't understand how important the flag is-"

"Yes I do." New Zealand looked up at England with an untrembling gaze, as though he somehow knew this would turn out all right. One could only wish to have that much confidence in fate. "I understand it. But you have been pushing me around, and you've sent away Canada, and you treat Australia like he's bad, and I'm sick of it."

England drew back a hand sharply, but he didn't strike. It was as though he were testing New Zealand to see if he'd flinch. He did not.

"You must stop doing this, do you understand? It's a disgrace! If you do this again, I swear, I won't hold back; I will beat your hide black and blue!" England glared, but it was like he was being held back by some intangible force. Once again, he was not punishing New Zealand.

It was curious; he would have never hesitated with Australia at New Zealand's age. The monster of envy inside of Australia started to rear its ugly head, but he choked it back down. This was not the time. "He understands, sir."

New Zealand didn't nod. Instead, he just dashed out of the room.

England looked over at Australia, and his next words were a surprise. "You're to watch New Zealand until I tell you otherwise. Make sure he doesn't do this again."

Was this good or bad? Australia couldn't say. He just nodded. "Yessir." Then he left the room.

As he returned to the kitchen, he saw Hong Kong had his spoon again. Wonderful.

* * *

"Canada! Canada! You'll never believe it!" America seemed to practically dance into Canada's house, excitement lighting up his blue eyes.

Canada momentarily regretted not latching his door. "What won't I believe?"

America grinned big enough to fit a teapot. "Texas is going to join me! It'll be him and me, one country, bigger and stronger than ever! Isn't that wonderful?"

If Canada didn't know better, he would think that was a practically dreamy look on America's face; the country's head was in the clouds once again, imagining being something more than he already was. "Yes, that's wonderful, America."

"Mexico's going to be pissed though. Oh well! It's worth it, because Texas is so much like me. It'll be just the same as if you and I… Well…" Here America's voice trailed off a bit, as he seemed to realize this was a more touchy topic.

Canada decided he wouldn't let it bother him; bygones were bygones. "If you and I had been one country?"

"Well, yes. It would have been amazing, you know." America awkwardly shrugged, shoulders uneven as he brought up one hand to scratch the back of his neck.

Maybe he knew how angry Canada had been. Maybe he didn't; but he certainly wasn't oblivious enough to think that things were perfect between them. Canada gave a sigh. He didn't necessarily want to go into this. "Maybe. You don't know how it would have turned out."

But America shook his head, insisting, though more gently than usual, "It would have been amazing, it being you and me. England would have had to let you go too, and then we'd both be free."

Being free. Alone, standing against the world with America. He'd actually considered it at the time of the offer, despite how he liked to pretend afterwards he hadn't. It had hurt too much, when America had attacked him. "America, please don't do this. You know why I didn't join you."

America gave a groan, saying, "Canada, I wouldn't have made you stop being Catholic… I mean, that's what England would do, wouldn't he?"

And it was a lie. Canada knew America at that time and every time since; he would have wanted Canada to change to match him better, to not be the strange Quebecois among the states. He would have discriminated against Canada at every turn. Canada set his mouth in a thin line, growing weary of the conversation. "You and England are different people; best not to even compare."

"Are you defending him? You know, he's the one who came between us. I was so angry at you…" America's head ducked down a bit at the admission, as he continued, "He was treating you so much better, just because you wouldn't defy him. It was as though you were his new favorite."

Oh, there had never been an appropriate replacement for America. Didn't he realize that? Did he have any idea how Canada had felt towards him? Canada sighed, saying, "There's never been anyone more important to him than you; he was just trying to teach you a lesson."

America shifted in his seat, murmuring, "He thought I was still a child. Do you know what it's like, to be penned in on all sides even though you should be able to touch the sky? I mean, he tried to spank me with his paddle after I destroyed Gaspée."

"You were acting like a child," Canada insisted, even though he knew that paddling at America's age was a bit much. He didn't like to think that America had just cause, because that made him at a strangely gray neutral for not joining him.

America snorted, but his eyes didn't look like they were dismissing the idea; no, they looked almost vulnerable. "You say so. Everyone says so. But I did it, didn't I? I'm not under his control anymore."

It was curious; Canada could see that thoughts were weighing on America. But for once, they didn't come tumbling out his mouth. So Canada sighed, saying, "Do you want pancakes?"

And America didn't jump at the mention of food. Instead, he smiled wryly. "If you got Australia to go with you, maybe-"

"I don't think so." Canada didn't need to hear about plans to escape; it had been some time since England was the empire of America's Revolutionary War. He got out the flour, saying, "Get some eggs, will you?"

"I don't need food, you know." America probably wanted it anyway, but his serious mood was coming down heavily on Canada. He was going to talk more about how nobody should have to be with England, especially not in his hemisphere.

Canada wasn't about to go on about that topic. "It'll be to celebrate your joining with Texas. You are excited about that, aren't you?"

And this time, America grinned for real. "Yes. Yes, I am. Make me a big stack, then!"

Canada laughed, glad they were back a on a more silly topic. "Fine, but you're washing dishes, understand? You've got to contribute somehow!"

They spent the rest of the visit chatting about how Texas was a tall fellow, and how nothing was better on pancakes than maple syrup. No more dwelling on the past, or the present, was done.

* * *

Australia had been watching both the flag and New Zealand; something was bubbling beneath the surface in the boy. He wasn't sure why; maybe it had to do with Canada leaving. Maybe it was simply that he had cracked under the pressure of living here. If he was indeed insane, then Australia would petition England to put him in a mental institution. It would be much safer there.

In any case, here he was, sitting on the couch in the parlor and enjoying a book on animals. It was actually a book describing some of his animals, and while it was a little outlandish at times, he was drinking it in like a dehydrated man.

The arrival of New Zealand nearly went unnoticed; the boy didn't say hello, or even look at Australia. No, he was making a beeline for the flag.

"Whoa, get away from there! New Zealand!" And Australia sprang into New Zealand's path, blocking him. He was not about to let England down.

New Zealand pushed at him, giving a grunt and saying, "Get out of my path! I need to take it down, he can't just push me around!"

Australia grabbed New Zealand's hands, trying to stop him from fighting further. "Look, you can't just throw a tantrum because you don't like what England's doing! He's the empire, we're the colonies; unless you're ready to break away-"

"I'm not scared, not like you! He doesn't frighten me, and I'm not afraid for him to leave!" New Zealand's eyes were blazing, holding a surprising amount of vigorous anger as he shoved at Australia and then tried to pull away. If it hadn't been a stupid thing, Australia would have been impressed.

"Don't be a fool! England will come down on you, hard! You've been pushing him, and I don't think he'll take much more of it!" Australia found himself practically _pleading_ with the runt. To think, none too long ago he would have been encouraging this behavior…

But New Zealand tore free with a great stagger backwards, and before Australia could stop him, had his hands on an ornate gas lamp. "Stay away from me!"

"No-!" Australia was promptly struck in the face, not bringing up his hands in time for the unexpected blow. New Zealand was throwing things at _him_? When did he become the target, for lord's sake? "New Zealand!"

"Let me tear down the flag!" Another one of England's prized parlor objects came flying at Australia.

He narrowly dodged it, and winced when he heard a cracking noise. "New Zealand, stop this!" The boy was insane! What was with all the defiance all of a sudden? Well, it had been a little gradual, but-

"It's just a flag! He's being a bully and I'm not a coward!" New Zealand's big blue eyes were blazing, and this time, he headbutted Australia in the stomach.

His head was surprisingly solid, and Australia tumbled back, feeling the air rush out of his lungs like it was being sucked out by a typhoon.

As he gasped for air, he was kicked in the head for good measure, and then New Zealand left him alone.

Australia scrambled to his feet, but it was too late; down fluttered the flag, landing in a red, blue and white wrinkly mess on the floor.

New Zealand looked at him pointedly, and promptly slipped off the mantle.

Too far away to catch him, if he'd thought of it, Australia could only stare dumbly for a moment, before realizing that despite hitting his head, New Zealand wasn't writhing in pain. And his eyes weren't open. In fact, he was lying there rather like a dead fish- "New Zealand! Good lord, you had better not be dead!"

A vigorous shaking produced no results. Australia felt for a pulse with his thumb, and found one, much to his relief. He smoothed down New Zealand's curls, though they boinged back into place immediately. Not that Canada could blame him for this, but he couldn't help but feel relieved. He felt his own face, and winced when he got to his aching nose. Yep, he was going to be ugly for the next week or so.

He heaved up New Zealand, who began to mumble, though Australia dismissed it as dream talking. He was just glad the boy wasn't bleeding.

He tucked him in upstairs, then as an afterthought put a wet cloth on his forehead. That helped with concussions, or being knocked out, or whatever had happened to New Zealand. Now, all he had to do was get back down there and clean up before-

"What the bloody _hell_ has gone on here?"

Well, so much for that… Australia went down to keep New Zealand from being killed, and of course, to save his own skin too.

* * *

The pounding on his door brought Canada out of his melancholic thoughts. He'd been dwelling on the young ones he'd left at England's house; he could only hope Australia had stepped up to his role as the eldest one.

He swung open the door, and was greeted with the sight of America, and someone who he'd never seen before.

"Canada! This is Texas. Texas, this is Canada." America beamed at both of them, as though his introduction was an instant guarantee of friendship.

Texas was tall, and his blue eyes were warm and relaxed. As he took off his hat, a fluff of walnut brown hair showed itself. "Howdy."

"Hello." Canada wasn't sure how to react. Here was the one America was so excited about; however, the only person who seemed even a little excited was America. Texas just stared stoically at Canada.

America beamed, saying, "Canada, I hate to ask,"

_No, you don't_, thought Canada.

"but can you make us something to eat? I'll help, but Texas doesn't know his way around your house." America was already walking past him, towards the kitchen.

"I suppose so." What was he going to do, turn them away? He felt uncomfortable with Texas, broad-shouldered and just watching him.

"I'll help," Texas said firmly, as he slipped off his gun belt and set it on the table.

"We'll be using an oven, Texas! You'll have no idea what you're doing, sit down." It wasn't in an authoritative tone; more like America was trying to be nice but not doing so well.

"I know how to use an oven, America." It was just plainly stated, without accusations or anger. Texas seemed easygoing enough, and it was going to save his and America's partnership.

Canada smiled at Texas, saying as hospitably as possible, "Well, I've got stew already cooking. So you can both sit down." He'd have to break out a loaf of bread, to stretch the meal, but fortunately he had made more than enough for himself and Kumabo.

America sat down easily, grinning and beginning to chatter like a squirrel once again. "Canada, Texas has great stories about breaking away from Mexico. Texas, tell him a story!"

If Canada had suspected he was the type, Texas seemed almost shy as he murmured, "I don't have any good stories. Talk about something else."

"It's fine," Canada assured him, lifting the lid off of the pot and stirring it. He did _not _need it sticking and burning and generally being nasty to clean. Of course America would be making Texas uncomfortable; he seemed to have a knack for it at times.

"No, no, tell him about the cannon! You can't avoid telling him about the cannon, that's my favorite part," America insisted, face lit up on remembrance of that little fact.

Texas sighed, but drawled out, "Mexico wanted to take away my cannon, on account of wanting to keep me under control. I said no, and I buried it. Then I fought him off. That was the start of the whole ordeal."

Canada raised his eyebrows. He knew Texas was related closely to America, but he certainly showed his roots on being threatened.

"Ha, that sure put a bee in the dirty greaser's bonnet!" America was absolutely delighted, and he looked over at Texas, almost as if he expected approval of his words.

Canada vaguely recalled him having an eye on the territory even before Texas became his fully self-sufficient self. He sort of winced at the slur, though. He didn't know Mexico very well, but he knew he was a fellow Catholic. That made him have this sense, back when America was his enemy, that they could get along if only they knew each other better.

Texas gave a small, slightly grim smile, as if remembering back to his days at war. "I suspect it did."

The stew was done, so Canada served it up. "I hope you like it; I wasn't expecting company."

Conversation during dinner mostly consisted of America pushing Texas for more stories, and Texas complying in that steady drawl of his. Canada mhm'd and ah'd at the appropriate moments.

"I told him, I wasn't going to be a damn Catholic. I told him he couldn't move my home around willy-nilly; it weren't his business what I did."

Another _delightful_ thing about Texas; he seemed to be as anti-Catholic as America. And Canada may not have been as Catholic as he used to be, but it still bothered him. It was a part of his identity; a precious piece of his Quebecois culture.

America chewed with his mouth open, grinning every so often as Texas told stories.

"The damn greaser deserves his problems; he's a conniving bastard, I reckon." Texas had once again insulted Mexico, and finally, Canada had had enough.

"He's probably just as scared of you as you are of him." Canada regretted it right after saying it. He wanted to take back the words and stuff them down his throat.

"Scared of me?" Texas let out a laugh, shaking his head. "I learned him to be scared of me. He knows now he can't push smaller nations around."

Canada shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Well, you and America have been poking and prodding him all these years; it isn't right."

Texas' eyes darkened, and he said, "What weren't right was him stabbing me when I was down; he's a devil, and I ain't going to stand for a protected colony like you lookin' down on me." He stood abruptly, and put on his hat.

America hurriedly chewed his bite and swallowed, saying, "Texas, wait! Canada doesn't know what he's talking about!"

"That's exactly the issue." And Texas slipped outside.

Canada felt a mixture of feelings; he knew Texas felt insulted, but hadn't America and him pushed Mexico? It was the state of things as far as Canada was aware.

America got up and ran after Texas, after telling Canada, "Well, look at what you've gone and done now!"

They didn't come back in.

* * *

New Zealand had been in bed for some time.

This had been, of course, after fighting England tooth and nail to not be switched; England had let him go, and he'd hidden in a tree for about a full day, despite the rain.

Then he'd finally come inside, feverish and in no state to be switched.

Australia was rather gently putting a cloth on his forehead, praying for the fever to break. England had said it wasn't extremely serious, but Australia had a bad feeling about all of it. "Zea, you had better get well, do you understand?"

Feverish mumblings in reply.

He was never going to admit it to New Zealand, but he was scared. He didn't want to lose the younger colony, despite how annoying and strange he could be. And despite the fact he'd hit him. That had taken a bit of getting over.

Hong came padding in then, climbing up on the bed and kneeing New Zealand in the stomach. Then he put a wet rag on him, pushing aside Australia's.

Australia let out a sigh. "Get off of New Zealand, Hong Kong. He doesn't like it." He eased the child off of New Zealand, hoping it wasn't contagious.

"He will get better?" Hong Kong didn't talk much, but apparently he'd deigned to speak this time.

"Of course." Australia didn't know for sure, but it was better not to tell children that, he was sure of it. They were too young to live in fear of someone disappearing forever.

* * *

The fight to civilize New Zealand was on from the moment he was out of bed. England attempted to switch him once more, but the boy came screaming into the house before he got so much as one hit in.

"Australia! Australia!"

Australia was nearly knocked down, but he didn't catch New Zealand. He grabbed his shoulders grimly and turned him around. "You've been bad; you have to be punished."

New Zealand began to hack loudly; he was obviously still sick.

It gave Australia pause. But no, he had to make sure that New Zealand didn't turn out a brat, didn't he? He had to help him find the right path.

England appeared before them, and New Zealand immediately huddled against Australia, sniffling miserably.

"Australia-"

"Come on, let him go." England's eyebrows were stern today. He held the switch in one hand and had seized the skinny arm of New Zealand with the other. "He needs a good whipping, or else he shall remain a savage."

And he would, wouldn't he? Australia made no attempt to hold onto him. "Yessir."

"You're mean!" New Zealand wailed, as he was dragged to his punishment. His shoes left skid marks on the floor.

It couldn't be helped. But what would Canada do?

Australia glared at the wall. He wasn't Canada; he couldn't be expected to earn himself a switching on top of New Zealand's! But he should protect him…

He wanted to slam his head into a wall. It was too much… He ran to the door of the kitchen, and was just in time to see England land the first hit on New Zealand's pale little back, raising a red welt.

"Sir! Sir, perhaps this is a bit too much; he's only just recovered from being ill!" Australia implored England, wringing his hands and wanting to wrench the switch from his hand.

New Zealand wept quietly, further earning Australia's sympathies.

"This is a matter for me to handle, Australia. I am the only one who understands your savagery from the vantage point of civilization; I am the only one who can set you straight," England said dismissively, pulling his arm back for another blow.

"No, please!" Australia seized his arm, staying the blow.

But before any confrontation could develop between Australia and England, England let out a gasping wheeze, hand dropping the switch and his free hand darting downwards to cover his crotch. "You little runt!" he managed.

New Zealand ran for his life, into the distance of the estate. He was surprisingly fast for being sick.

"New Zealand! Stop!" Australia released England's arm, and made to run after New Zealand. He was stopped by a grip on his forearm.

"Let the little rotter starve in the wilderness, for all I care! Do you hear me, New Zealand? You'll have to come back eventually!" England glared spitefully at New Zealand's retreating back. He seemed to be done with attempting to punish for now.

Australia wanted to retrieve the child. How well would he do in relative wilderness? He wasn't even fully healthy. But something told him that maybe he should let him be and let him come back under his own power. A clawing, biting child was the last thing he wanted to fight with right now.

New Zealand disappeared into the woods, completely gone from view. Australia only hoped he knew what he was doing.

* * *

After a while, it became impossible to wait for New Zealand any longer. He had slept outside, presumably, and he had hopefully found food; but the thought that it could rain and give him pneumonia had sent Australia outside.

Apparently, England had similar concerns, because he followed. He was not heartless, Australia was sure. That, or he was sick of waiting to punish New Zealand.

They didn't speak at all while searching, other than to call for the boy.

When they finally stumbled upon him, Australia was a little surprised to see his worries had been a little unfounded.

A great dirt hump stood on the ground, partly hollowed out and providing a cozy nesting place. A fire had been put out none too far away, and what appeared to be the remains of a squirrel sat picked clean by it.

They found New Zealand urinating none too far away. He was startled to be found, and hurriedly covered himself. Bags were under his eyes. "Go away! I'm not coming back!"

"You _are_ coming back, and I will whip your sorry hide!" Well, England certainly wasn't in a forgiving mood. He seized New Zealand's arms and tried to drag him towards the house, far in the distance.

But New Zealand wriggled, and attempted to bite. "No! NO! Lemme go!"

Australia was, once again, at a crossroads. He liked New Zealand, but he mostly obeyed England; what was he supposed to do? "Please, just come back, you're sick!"

A hacking cough interrupted the fight, but New Zealand promptly caught England's wrist with his teeth, and civility ended.

England smacked his face, once, twice, three times, until he let go. "What am I supposed to do with you?" he demanded, infuriated.

The red marks on New Zealand's face gave him a savage visage. "Let me go! Just let me do whatever the hell I please! And stop moving things! You can't tell me what to do, you can't-"

And England smacked him again, not out of necessity this time, but out of anger. "Shut your damn mouth! You will do what I tell you to, and you will stop this deviant behavior!"

New Zealand went for his crotch again, but this time England blocked. He didn't block, however, the stomp on his foot.

England looked rather peculiar hopping around holding one foot. Australia stepped forward, hollering, "That's enough! Stop it!"

But New Zealand, holding the side of his face with the red, swelling handprint, turned tail and ran.

They wouldn't see him again until he wanted to be seen.

* * *

"Texas didn't want to come because of what you said last time," America said by way of greeting, as he slipped into Canada's cabin.

Canada just rolled his eyes. "I barely know him; I don't care."

It looked as though America had brought a sack of potatoes today. He grinned at Canada, stating, "We're going to make mashed potatoes, so that we can make potato skins. Doesn't that sound delicious?"

"Potato skins?" Canada walked over to America, looking the potatoes over. They were golden potatoes, America's favorite. "Why not just mash up the skins with the potatoes?"

"Because you can't melt butter in them if they're not separate!"

Of course America wanted to waste his butter. But, Canada reasoned, he was doing all right financially; he could indulge his brother.

And so they set to work, stabbing potatoes and putting them into his oven.

"How are things with you and Texas?" Canada started the conversation, and let America take over.

"They're great! I've got a room set up for him, and he wants to take down one of the huge trees in my yard for firewood. I said it was fine. Oh, and he's not really pissed at you or anything; just a little. Really, he's a great man if you get to know him. He's also going to help me fix my wagon; I could do it myself, but I haven't had the time lately! And do you know how good he is with horses?"

And so on and so on. America was happy to blather on, and Canada was happy to let him.

It was when America finally admitted something that Canada paid attention again. "I don't know, though. I'm nervous."

"About?" Canada asked, as they sat and waited for the potatoes to be cooked.

"About this whole living with someone thing. I mean, it didn't work out so well the first time," America said, crossing his arms over his body.

"That was different," Canada reassured, a little troubled by the insecurity in America's face.

"You're right. Yes, it was. This time, we'll be equals, won't we?" It seemed America's confidence had been restored. "And if things don't work, I mean, he can leave, can't he?"

"Exactly." Canada smiled at America, glad to see he was working things out nonviolently.

America grinned back, and for once, didn't bring up Canada joining him.

They passed the rest of the afternoon enjoying buttered potato skins, which turned out to be worth the amount of butter wasted. Then America went home with his share of mashed potatoes.

* * *

When New Zealand finally emerged from the woods, Australia didn't even notice at first. He just walked quietly into the kitchen, and sat down at the table. "Australia."

"New Zealand, when did you get in here?" He walked across the room quickly, taking the boy's face in his hands, and examining his head for ticks. When he found none, he hugged him. "I'm glad you're back; what are you going to do about England?"

"I'm going to apologize," he snuffled, hugging back. Then he looked at Australia fiercely. "I'm still a proud nation of my own, though."

The hidden tough side of New Zealand never ceased to surprise Australia. He nodded, though. "Yes. Yes you are."

He took him and helped him with a bath; brief conversation was exchanged between the two as layers of dirt and grime were scrubbed off. Apparently, it wasn't so hard to survive in England's woods if one knew how. Australia could only wonder where he'd learned it.

When he had to let New Zealand go face England, which he insisted on doing alone, Australia wanted to hold on to him and hide him in his room. But, as New Zealand said, he wasn't a helpless child. However young he might be, he was a nation of his own.

He went to stay in Hong Kong's room, where he found the child sucking on his toes. He was surprisingly flexible, and Australia had to wonder if he'd been that flexible at that age.

Silence. Whatever England and New Zealand were saying, they weren't saying it loud. It was a good sign, he supposed.

Hong Kong tried to ease off his shoes and teach him how to suck his toes, but he politely refused.

He wasn't a dwelling kind of person, or so he told himself, but this was eating at him. Peace could never be had in their family if one member was rebelling; he was sure that if New Zealand couldn't work it out with England, things would be worse for all of them.

But quite suddenly, the blonde appeared in the doorway, murmuring, 'It's done' and dropping his hands to his sides.

And Australia couldn't help but feel something hadn't really been resolved.

* * *

Canada hadn't been prepared for the frenzied knocking on his door that night. And he certainly hadn't been prepared for a sobbing America, bursting in and throwing himself at Canada in a hug.

It took several moments to even get a coherent word out of him, and that word was 'Texas.'

"What did Texas do to you? What happened?" Canada demanded, suddenly feeling protective. This was his brother, and he'd be damned if he was just going to let this Texas do whatever the hell he wanted!

"No, it's Texas! It's Texas, Canada!" America bawled. Canada suspected he'd been holding it together until the moment he knocked on the door. America tended to lose it most when he had someone to comfort him.

"What? America, what happened?" He had his arms around him, feeling his body shake with sobs.

"He's gone!"

"Gone? Gone where?" If he'd walked out of this deal… though, America hardly seemed the type to react so badly to something like this falling through.

"No, gone! We inked the constitution, and he just faded away! Into thin air, like a ghost! Canada, he's gone!" America seemed to collapse against him, energy spent. He still wept quietly.

He hadn't expected this; Canada was stunned. He stroked America's hair, murmuring variations, of 'shh' and 'it's all right' as he tried to figure this one out.

Maybe Texas' land had been so completely absorbed into America's that he'd ceased to exist as a nation. Maybe it was because most of Texas' people were Americans to begin with.

To be honest, this was what Canada had feared all those years ago; it wasn't unheard of for a nation to disappear. It more often happened when it was divided up into new nations, however.

America sniffled into his shirt, and he was like a kid, probably leaving stains.

"You'll be all right," Canada promised, and he had to wonder if he would.

/AN/ Well, this is a darker take on Hetalia, so I see nations as replacing each other or absorbing each other. I actually had that view when I started the story, but it turns out that might not be canon. In any case, that's canon for this story.

Anyway, history in this chapter: Texas was made a state of the USA. It took a bit of debating and time, because some Americans were unsure about starting a problem with Mexico, but anti-Mexican sentiment was fairly strong, so they decided it was worth it.

The Flagstaff wars took place during 1845, and ended in the very beginning of 1846. Basically, the problem was that the British moved the capital from the North of New Zealand to the South. Repeated cutting down of the flagstaff led to war, between the British/loyal Maori and the rebel Maori. It ended as really a win for neither, or sort of a win for both. It depends on how you look at it.

I wanted to apologize for it taking so long to update; this chapter was just a monster. I hated it after a while, and actually I've been in the middle of a shift to original fiction. Just maybe, you'll end up reading my YA stories! Anyway, I will work to keep this story going, but I'm back to college now, so it may be slow in coming.


	30. Chapter 30

Next chapter! This story is going to be so ridiculously long it's not even funny!

I don't own Hetalia! end/AN/

New Zealand was not a lap sitter. This was something that Australia had picked up on, and it made sense, since he was really too old to sit on laps. But then why was he gazing wistfully at Hong Kong snuggled in Wales' lap?

"It's good to make it back over," Wales said, stroking Hong Kong's head. He seemed to have a way with little children, Australia noticed, because Hong Kong looked near drifting off, head lolling against Wales' shoulder.

And it was very good that he'd come over; Wales was a sturdy, if short, country, and he'd helped them finish their chores so that they would have plenty of time to sit in the parlor and talk. "Yes," Australia agreed, "we haven't seen you in some time."

New Zealand chewed on a hangnail, still watching Hong Kong like he wanted to lift him up and take his place. It made Australia wonder if the boy had gotten much cuddling and the like when he was little.

Wales was smiling, as he replied, "You've gotten big, Australia. You're going to be a country, I'm sure."

A thrill struck Australia. The words frightened him; he didn't want to leave England, at least not yet. It was a strange attachment he had to the country; he couldn't explain it. "I'm not that big," he insisted, hoping Wales wouldn't say things like that again.

"I think I'll be a country too," New Zealand put in, and Australia couldn't say for sure if he'd announced it for attention or because he really believed he would be one.

Wales ruffled Australia's perpetually messy hair, saying, "It's not so bad being a country. You'll see someday." It was like Wales believed he could see the future; Australia wondered if he could or not.

Hong Kong flipped over and buried his face into Wales' shirt, letting out a contented sigh. New Zealand's shoulders seemed to hunch up a bit, as he watched.

Australia had the strange idea of letting him sit on his lap, but he had a feeling that would not be welcome. Besides, New Zealand was more than half his size. His bony hind quarters would dig in and make his legs hurt. Instead, Australia just sighed. He didn't expect to fulfill Wales' predictions, and he didn't like this talk of being independent.

Wales seemed to notice, and let him alone. Instead he turned his attention to New Zealand, who leaned forward on his seat across from him. He wordlessly lifted up an arm, and New Zealand caught the signal, immediately burrowing against Wales like some sort of rabbit.

Hong Kong whined as the arm was taken away from him and wrapped around New Zealand instead, lifting his head to reveal he'd been sucking on the collar of Wales' shirt.

Wales just chuckled, patting his head, and reassuring him he hadn't been forgotten.

It made Australia wonder, as he was prone to do. How did people know when children needed them? People like Canada, Wales and even Scotland always seemed to know. Hong Kong had wet his bed that morning, he'd been so distressed during the night; Australia had had to give him a chilly bath to get him clean before England realized. Fortunately the laundry was not an affair England concerned himself with.

And New Zealand? He'd been especially obstinate that morning. Mostly insisting that the bacon was too well done to be eaten and sullenly glaring off at the clock in the kitchen. He'd been that way since the flag incident, for the most part. Australia was sure he was too young to act so dour.

Now here they were, happy just to be in contact with Wales. For a moment, Australia felt a flash of resentment; dealing with children like this didn't come as easily to him as it did to Wales. But then he just thanked the lord that he had people who could fill in where he wasn't so adept.

"You're getting my couch dirty."

Australia nearly jumped out of his skin, looking up to see England standing in the doorway of the parlor. He was looking crossly at Wales.

Wales seemed to hold the two children closer, and murmured back, "I'm not dirty. I put on clean clothes before coming."

Australia's blood began to run hot in his veins, as he saw England start to sneer. He may have needed England, but he felt protective of Wales.

"Really, it isn't enough that you think you can pop in whenever you want? That you speak that bloody language of yours? You have to come here and corrupt my charges?" England's eyes were sharp as shards of coal.

Wales glared back, but it was short of being a confident gesture. It was more baleful, like he was remembering why he hadn't visited for so long. "I'm not corrupting anyone."

"He's just visiting, sir." There was a meaningful hint of growl in Australia's voice. He hadn't meant to, but he needed Wales to visit again. He needed any of the good countries and colonies to visit again. They couldn't be alone forever.

England looked a little surprised at his defiance, but ignored Australia, retorting, "They only see you as a soft plaything; as soon as they figure out there's nothing in your head, they'll move on in a hurry."

"We love him!" New Zealand pushed free of Wales' arm, face red and eyes blazing. He had his fists clenched, as he followed up with, "And we hate you! You're the most hateful and horrible person I have ever met!"

Australia nearly tackled New Zealand pulling him out of England's reach. It was as though New Zealand didn't even think about how he could be switched as easily as England could make tea.

England's face turned red, and it seemed to bloat with anger. "You little wretch! You bloody damn brat, I will not tolerate this sort of behavior!"

And Hong Kong promptly burst out into high-pitched little sobs, apparently thinking the anger was directed at or otherwise going to harm him. Wales rocked him, murmuring, "Talk tidy, for lordssake…"

"Don't hurt him, please, sir!" Australia had shoved New Zealand behind him, and felt like he'd just bared his breast for the sword.

"Australia! You do not defy me!" England's hair seemed puffed out like a lion's mane, making him look angrier.

"Yes, I do!" It was bold, it was maybe a little more courageous than he'd thought he was, and it was going to earn him a switching. Or worse, a visit to the dank old closet; it still visited him in his nightmares. It had been a long time, but there was no guarantee that England had forgotten it.

England exhaled loudly through his nose, seeming rather put out. "Is this what I have to deal with now, from you? Is this how you're going to act, proving your treacherous blood?"

"I don't have treacherous blood!" Australia insisted. He didn't, he was sure he didn't, Canada couldn't love someone with treacherous blood. Or did he? Self-doubt quickly began to set in.

England sneered. "You're a criminal, through and through. You were a thief and an urchin when I took you in; you think this short amount of time, _not even a century_, could undo that?"

"England, that's not right," Wales protested, standing up with Hong Kong in his arms. He went pale when England thrust a fist under his nose, however.

"Do not interfere! Get out of my house, you sodding bumpkin!"

Australia had the sudden feeling of being bigger than he was; it had occurred to him that Wales wasn't a match for England. And maybe neither was he; but he felt a great weight of responsibility, and so stepped closer, intending to get between the two. "Leave him alone, he never did anything to you."

England's eyes were blazing at being opposed on every side. He pointed a finger threateningly at Australia, saying, "If you do not go to your room and sit on your bed this instant, I will whip you and New Zealand!"

Hong Kong began to whimper, clinging to Wales as if he knew how everything was going to end.

"And give me this-" England snapped, ripping Hong Kong from Wales. The tiny colony's face crumpled up and he began to cry as he was tucked under England's arm like a log of cheese. He didn't fight, though.

Australia was unsure of what to do. He felt like he was a man now, in some ways, and he wanted to preserve that feeling and protect everyone in the room. On the other hand, England was still stronger than him. It hurt, it burned like fire, but he hung his head and seized New Zealand's wrist tightly in his. "Come on, Zea."

"No, we're not leaving!" New Zealand dragged his feet, voice squeaky as he fought to stay here and presumably get to see Wales.

Australia hauled him up over one shoulder, and headed from the stairs with his screaming load. He heard arguing, and maybe the sound of skin hitting skin, but he couldn't know for sure with New Zealand screaming the way he was.

When they got to come back down an hour later, Wales was gone and Hong Kong was despondently sucking the starch out of his sleeves while England read the newspaper.

* * *

"I'm done. I won't share anymore; why should England have a claim in our hemisphere anyway?"

America was babbling on about the Oregon territory. It seemed, lately, he'd taken a shine to any territory on his continent.

Canada could only mumble in faux agreement. He found it a little amusing that America was taking the Monroe Doctrine so seriously. He was such a little upstart, really. Though he had grown a lot the past year. It was something they didn't talk about, however.

"England can just get his snooty ass out of the New World, right Canada?" America looked at him expectantly, smile on his face.

Canada just sighed. "You know I'm not going to agree with you, so why do you keep trying?"

It wasn't that he liked England; it was that he liked the security. America's early days had been so vulnerable; even now, he suspected things weren't as solid as America might like.

"It's worth trying," America insisted, and then he quickly changed the subject. "You know that greaser?"

"_Mexico_. That's his name." Canada resisted the urge to clench his teeth; he would get a headache that way.

"Yes, whatever you say. Well, that greaser has been stirring up trouble with me about Tex… well, you know, my new territories. Wants the border to be different than it really is. He's just a greedy bastard." America laced his hands behind his head, leaning back in Canada's chair.

Canada wanted to say, _and you're not?_ But he didn't, because that would invite too much conflict. If he got mad, he'd probably end up spouting off about this and more, but for now he held his tongue. "You're not baiting him, are you?"

"Why would you say that? It's almost as though you're on his side." America frowned at Canada.

Another sigh from Canada. This was why he didn't want to bring it up. America was of the mind that every person he liked thought the same things as him, and if they didn't, it was either strange or a betrayal. Hopefully he was thinking the former.

"I just don't like the way you fight. That's all," Canada said.

"Well, it better be." If Canada didn't know better, it seemed like America was trying to pull off Texas' stoicism. It wasn't working well.

Canada's temper flared. "What do you mean, 'it better be'? I don't belong to you, America, and you have no right to decide how I should think!"

America looked like a frightened puppy who had tried to scare a bigger dog. He backed down quickly. "I didn't mean it that way! Just forget about it, I didn't mean it. All right?"

He was far from pacified, but Canada decided to let it go.

Some small talk was attempted after that, but it was awkward. It was a relief when America finally decided to leave.

* * *

Australia wished Scotland would visit. He was the one that England couldn't tame, it seemed, though Ireland hardly seemed tamed either.

In any case, a visit of any kind would be lovely. He hadn't realized how much he missed positive adult contact until Wales had come. And now, it looked unlikely he would be coming back.

But never mind. For now, he was watching Hong Kong sleep; the boy had wet the bed two nights this week already, and Australia had the strange idea of waking him up in the middle of the night to take him to the bathroom. Maybe then his bladder would be empty at the time that he would normally wet the bed.

Right now, however, he just felt peaceful watching the boy sleep. Hong Kong may have had mongolian features, but he was a fairly adorable child. He had plump little cheeks and appeared to have several small spit bubbles formed at the corners of his mouth.

Australia was loath to wake him up, but it had to be done, so he did it carefully. He tried to think how he might wake up a dog, and decided to settle on petting Hong Kong's head, murmuring, "It's time to get up and use the chamber pot, all right?"

Slowly, Hong Kong's eyes twitched, and then opened. He looked confused for a minute, before absorbing what Australia said. Then he burrowed down into the covers. He was apparently not on board with the plan.

Australia groaned, and tried to disentangle him from his bedding. "We have to make sure you don't wet the bed, or England could get angry!"

Hong Kong protested, murmuring words that didn't entirely make sense to Australia. He suspected they were Cantonese, or a mixture of that and English.

He got him out, though, despite whines of anguish at leaving the warm bed. "Come on, let's get this done and gone."

He'd already dragged out the china vessel, and politely turned around to let Hong Kong use it.

Fortunately, the boy did, instead of diving back into bed like Australia had suspected he might. It was a quick matter, and Hong Kong was back in bed before all the warmth left, Australia was sure.

As he tiptoed back to his room, he noticed there was light coming from England's office. Maybe normally he would have left it alone, but couldn't help looking this time. What if someone else was snooping in there?

But he was only greeted with a tired-looking England, shuffling through papers. He looked up when Australia stood in the doorway. "Come in. Don't back away now, I said come in."

Reluctantly, Australia did come in. The smell of ink struck his nose, and he saw that England was writing out something. He vaguely wondered what it was.

"What are you doing up at this hour?" England didn't seem accusatory; it was more like he was asking the weather, albeit of someone who might make up details.

"Nothing. I just woke up," Australia lied, fumbling a bit with his housecoat tie.

"Mhm. I see. Well then, you don't suppose you could make me a cup of tea?" England was practically amiable at this hour, it seemed.

When Australia had returned with the tea, England was resting his face in his hands. He didn't look up, though he seemed to take in an appreciative breath. "Earl grey, lovely choice."

Was he allowed to leave? Australia wasn't sure. He didn't dare leave without permission, despite how much more agreeable England seemed. "Sir?"

"Yes, Australia?" England blew on his tea, taking a sip and seeming to just enjoy the warmth and taste.

"Is it agreeable to you if I head back to bed?" It all depended on a good answer. Australia cringed, expected a rebuke.

England just sighed, however. "Empires take a lot of work, Australia. Count yourself as lucky that you'll never have one."

Australia hesitated.

"Yes, you may go to bed," England said, waving his hand dismissively and scrawling something new on one of the papers surrounding him.

Disappearing out of the room with a breath of thanks, Australia pondered what he had just seen and heard. Was England nicer at night, or was it a trick of his mind? England did have his good days every so often, but they always seemed so random. If only he could pin it down to something or another, he'd know when to expect them.

The next day, as always, England acted as though the encounter had not happened. That was all right with Australia.

* * *

Canada didn't hear directly from America. He did, however, get a letter cursing out 'that damn greaser' for attacking America 'without provocation,' long after he'd heard the fact.

He knew how America had taunted and incensed his southern neighbor. He knew it was far from an unprovoked attack.

Yet, when he heard of the new war breaking out in his hemisphere, his reply to the letter was a wish for things to get better and turn out well. He just wasn't sure for whom.

/AN/ The historical thing that happens in this chapter is the beginning of the Mexican-American War! Here's the rundown of that:

America and the UK shared the Oregon territory (which was much bigger than just Oregon the state). America's President ran on the campaign of '54◦ 40' or bust!' which meant that they wanted all of the Oregon territory for themselves, right up to the 54◦ parallel line at the top.

So, when Polk, the candidate, was elected, he had himself in a bit of sticky spot. He didn't want to go to war with Britain or anything, so he decided that he should go with 49◦ as a compromise. However, he knew Americans would dislike it, and dislike him. So, he came up with a clever plan, taking into account the border hostilities with Mexico.

He sent troops into the disputed area, and because everyone was freaking out about possible war with Mexico, he settled the Oregon territory problem easily supposedly to avert war on two fronts. The problem was, while his stunt caused the Oregon question to be resolved easily, it started a war with Mexico, because the Mexicans attacked.

Anti-Mexican sentiment was high, so he was left with no options except to attack back. And that is how the Mexican-American War began.

Also, about the mongolian description of Hong Kong: please do keep in mind that many of the characters in this story are probably racist.


	31. Chapter 31

Gosh, I just feel so excited about writing lately! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I have enjoyed writing it! Also, there will be a timeskip after this one. Possibly a very big one.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

"England!"

The shout echoed down through the kitchen and into the parlor, where Australia sat practicing letters with Hong Kong. His heart jumped at the voice; Wales was back, and so soon after a tongue-lashing from England! He immediately jumped to his feet to greet the country.

But England got there first, apparently having been on his way to the kitchen to get himself something. "Yes, what is it? Thank heavens you came in the back door; I should hate to get coal dust in my clean foyer."

Australia rounded the corner to see Wales bristling.

"How could you? How could you do something like this?" Wales demanded, shoulders hunched up in anger.

England seemed to pretend to think it over for a second, before saying, "Even though you've referenced nothing in particular, I'm going to assume you mean the 'Reports of the commissioners of enquiry into the state of education in Wales.' Someone read them to you?"

Wales ground his teeth, taking a sharp intake of breath through his nose. "I read about it, thank you. I know what's in them; how could you publish something like that? Scotland or Ireland could read it anytime they wanted to!"

Tsking, England replied, "I doubt very much that Ireland could understand the language in it. I doubt you even understand what they're about. Besides, I didn't put anything in them that wasn't true, so I don't see why you're fussing so."

"I'm not lazy, and I'm not immoral, and I'm not ignorant! Just because I don't have time to sit around and read big books like you do doesn't mean I don't know anything!" Wales' seemed to be trying hard to overcome his lack of verbal giftedness.

Australia wanted to burst in and do something, but he hung back. He hadn't even heard of these reports, he didn't know for sure what was going on.

"Please," England said, condescending tone taking over, "you do know what those words mean, don't you? Of course you don't, or else you'd recognize that they apply to you. More importantly, that ridiculous language of yours, combined with not going to the Church, is to blame for all of this. I'll have it all remedied by the end of the year."

"I go to church! Just because it's not yours doesn't mean- doesn't mean that it's not good! And if you'd stop forcing me to learn in English-" Wales was promptly cut off by England.

"Oh, so you'd rather be a proper heathen, spouting off your atrocious little gibberish and worshipping the devil? Why don't you just prance around naked on top of it, wearing war paint like in the old days?" England was sneering, looking down on Wales.

Wales took another deep breath through his nose. He was obviously trying to think of a good reply, and he murmured slowly, "I'm not a heathen. I just don't need you mocking me all the time; I'm not stupid just because I have another language. If you'd only-"

"I'm not going to, so stop asking. What would it look like if I let everyone operate under their own languages? We'd be the laughingstock of the world! I'm an empire, and you're part of it, so you will do as I say and we will be unified! Starting today, if I ever hear you speaking in Welsh again, I will prick your tongue with a knife, do you understand?" England's chest was puffed out, like he thought he was being a magnificent leader.

Clenching his teeth, Wales' lips seemed to tremble in rage, though he obviously had no words to express it. And that was when he firmly but quietly murmured something Australia didn't quite understand.

England's face turned an angry red, as his hand shot out to seize Wales by the face. "That's it, you've done it! I've had enough with you!"

Australia rushed forward as Wales tried to pry off England's fingers and England reached for one of the kitchen knives. This couldn't happen, not here, and not ever again! "England! Stop!" He grabbed the wrist that held the knife, afraid of how much damage could be done in a struggle.

"Australia! Let go of me this instant!" For once, England was the one who was being held back.

Wales twisted in his grip, breaking free of his hand and backing away with the finger marks on his cheeks. He was glaring, apparently ready for any battle that should break out.

"Leave Wales alone! You're hurting him!" Australia said.

"Do not ask me to leave him be! You've seen the way he acts, how can you even intervene? Release my arm!" England tried to twist his arm free.

Australia used his whole body to hold on and keep him still. He swore he was shaking all over, afraid of being sliced open. "I'm not asking, sir!"

"Well, I never-!"

"You're hurting all of us, just stop!" And all the words were coming to Australia, telling him what to say. "You're tearing us apart; you say you're the empire, but we're all part of it, and we can't live like this! Please, stop doing this!"

And England, for once, lost his words. His arm slackened a bit, and he blinked at Australia, before finally coming up with, "What on earth do you mean you can't live like this? I've not done anything to harm you."

Wales was watching, not saying anything. He looked a little confused as well.

Australia continued. "All this time, you've been treating us like you have to keep us trodden down just to keep us with you, but it's not true. We could all love you if you just let us."

England looked positively cornered now, and he spluttered out, "Heavens' sakes, what are you going on about? Are you drunk?" He let go of the knife, letting clatter to the floor.

"I mean what I said. I'm not drunk, or mad, or savage. We could be a family, for real, if you let us," he insisted, spurred on by a lack of anger from England. He wasn't afraid, he realized, as his heart seemed to pound loudly in his chest. Everything he'd thought for the past decade was spilling out of his mouth. "We could be a peaceful empire, we could be the best we could ever be, with all of us working together! If we don't have to fight you, we could be together forever."

England's arm came away freely, and his eyes looked wildly from Wales to Australia. It was as though he couldn't piece it together, like this might be a huge practical joke on him. He shook his head, stating, "I'm going to my room. Leave me be."

"England, please, listen to me!" Australia caught his arm again, and he knew, he felt it, this was his last chance to get through to England. This was his last chance to change the way things were.

"No! Leave me be!" It sounded almost frightened, as England jerked his arm free and looked at him with wide eyes. It was as though he couldn't be faced with the idea that he needed to change, or that there could be a change.

"England…" Australia wanted to grab him to keep him here. How else would he hear the truth? How else could he get through to him? "We don't need a master. We need a big brother."

England turned on his heel and seemed to almost run to his room.

Australia hung his head. It was over; he would never have a chance like that again.

Wales patted him on the shoulder, then quite suddenly hugged him. "You've grown up," he murmured, presumably his way of communicating that he thought Australia had handled the situation maturely.

Australia hugged him back. He still couldn't help but feel like he'd let the whole lot of them down; England was sure to be stricter on the morrow. "I didn't fix anything."

"It's all right; we're a family anyhow, whether England says we are or not," Wales said, releasing him. He ruffled his hair, and then let out a sigh. "I'd better leave; things must always get worse before they get better, I suppose."

Which meant that Wales thought things were about to get better, didn't it? Australia let himself hang on to that hope. "Take care," he said, and Wales wished him the same, disappearing out the door.

* * *

Except, things did not seem to get worse. Australia saw neither hide nor hair of England for days at a time, only narrowly catching him in the mornings. And even then, England would shrug him off, ignoring any attempts to get through.

New Zealand had demanded to know what had happened; he claimed England had been in his room late at night, just staring at his head when it looked like he was asleep. He'd been very sneaky in noticing this, he pointed out; England didn't realize he knew.

But Australia couldn't give a clear answer; what had he done, besides finally let his heart burst out of his mouth?

Even so, there was a finality in those days. Something was going to change; the air was electric with a sweeping difference. Australia took special care to rock Hong Kong a lot, and even squeezed New Zealand in with them on occasion.

When the news came, it was less of a shock than it might have been. England stood in the doorway of the nursery, where Hong Kong slept. He caught Australia's eye, and Australia paused in lacing up Hong Kong's boots.

"Yessir?"

England coughed into his sleeve. "Ahem. I have been reviewing your improvements, and it has been decided that you will do better elsewhere."

Australia nearly hurled right there and then. Elsewhere? Did that mean in another empire? Belonging to some cruel European whose language who didn't even speak? Or worse, what if it was one of the Orientals? He barely managed to reply, "Sir, I don't believe that's necessary-"

"You misunderstand me," England interrupted, "You will move back to your home, and there help keep order and efficiency."

For a moment, Australia felt a horror at having to leave, before a sudden longing hit him like a tidal wave. _His home_… how long had it been since he'd seen a dingo, or the flat, long lands that stretched for miles? He took in a deep breath, feeling within him the warm summer sun of his home. "Sir… Home? My home?"

"Yes. You must pack up your things immediately."

Wordlessly, Australia nodded, and finished lacing up Hong Kong's shoes. Hong Kong watched him curiously, fingers shoved in his mouth, and tried to latch on when he went to stand.

Australia gave him a squeeze, and then let him go. The idea of home wasn't enough to make him so giddy he forgot to care about his brothers.

He stumbled to his room, and began packing folded clothes and what little else he had. Home. He could do whatever he pleased if he were at his own home. If he so desired, he could sleep naked, he could eat at irregular hours, and he could work outside in his garden for as long as he desired.

It was making him a little woozy, just thinking about it. He would be so far away that it would take England a long time to come to visit, if he came at all.

Was this how Canada felt? Was he glad to go home? But Australia could already feel his heart sinking as New Zealand's blonde head appeared in the doorway.

"You can't just leave." He had his arms crossed, and looked like he thought this was all Australia's purposeful doing.

Australia paused in his packing, and walked over to New Zealand. "I have to. It's my home; I haven't been there in decades."

"But what about m- Hong Kong?" New Zealand said accusatorily, hurt eyes turning towards Australia's face.

It wasn't easy to find what to say; but Australia was an intuitive person, and his intuition was telling him things would be fine. "You'll both be all right, I promise. And if you ever need me, you can send me a letter."

New Zealand pouted at the floor.

Australia sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Zea, look at me. Come on."

When the boy did so, he continued, "I know you'll be all right. You're made of sterner stuff than I was at your age."

"Well, I know," New Zealand said, as his face grew pink. At first, Australia thought it was because he was embarassed, but then he realized New Zealand was scrubbing at his eyes. "But I don't want you to go."

Australia seized him and pulled him into a tight hug. "You'll be all right, I promise."

New Zealand hugged back, tight enough to make Australia's ribs hurt. But it was a good kind of hurt, the kind that made you know that there was nothing that could make you be forgotten.

"I'll come back and visit every year, I promise. Send letters to Scotland and Wales and get them to visit too. You won't be lonely." Australia released New Zealand, ruffling his hair and watching the curls spring back into place.

"If I'm lonely, I'm coming to your house and bringing you back," New Zealand threatened, scrubbing at his eye with the back of his wrist.

Australia laughed, then buckled his suitcase and headed for downstairs. As he got there, he could see England re-lacing Hong Kong's shoes. He hung back, so he could watch.

England's voice was soft, as he held both ends of the lace and instructed Hong Kong on how to tie it. There was a paternal shade to his face, but his eyes were uncertain, glancing at Hong Kong every so often. It was as though he was afraid to try it, but he was going to do it anyway.

And that was when Australia knew that the children would be all right.

/AN/ Okay, I've never finished a story quite like this; I need pointers. Is this a good place to end it, and then have an epilogue? Or should there have been more buildup? I see this as being the point when Australia has finally grown up, but again, I am not experienced at finishing a whole arc.

I had originally intended this to go on til Federation, or even WWII, but I figure I can just write a sequel if it's necessary. I have such plans for Australia and New Zealand. And maybe, for the sequel, I'll do a little more outlining and planning, more rewriting and redrafting.

Anyway, history is the Treachery of the Blue Books; basically, in 1846, some English guys who spoke no Welsh went and observed the Welsh schools. Now, these schools were taught in English, even though most of the Welsh children spoke Welsh. Naturally, this meant that the children weren't performing very well. There were some truths in the report, but the men who wrote it unfortunately got some of their information from bad sources. The result of the report was that even more effort was put into getting rid of Welsh by the English. A rebuttal was made by an educated Welshman some years later, but it had little effect.

Also, sometime around now was when Australia stopped being a bunch of penal colonies. It's a little unclear when precisely there stopped being penal colonies and instead began being just normal colonies, but it seems to have been around now. That's the reason I decided here would be a good place for the end.


	32. Epilogue

And here's the epilogue! I hope you've all enjoyed reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it! This is where you find out what happened to everybody!

I don't own Hetalia! end/AN/

Change happens like erosion; quietly and imperceptibly until you look back and see just how much of the rock is gone and smooth.

Australia speculated their family was this way.

England may have never become a coddling, heart-to-heart sort of parent, but the switch gathered dust in the corner, only broken out every so often by Scotland to try to scare Hong Kong into behaving properly (which didn't work). He grew into a new maturity, able to finally lay America's ghost to rest.

Australia leaned back in his deck chair, watching New Zealand's sweaty body bake in the sunlight. His eyes were closed, and if Australia had felt in a particularly devilish mood, he could have doused him with water, or his own beer, which sat unattended on the table next to him. But Australia was content to sit back and bake in the sun with him, his skin sure to take on an even darker shade of tan.

New Zealand had grown big in the amount of time since Australia had left him behind at England's house, though he could never be considered that large; he'd also mellowed out, after a period of rebellion. He was no longer the cute brat that Australia had learned to both despise and protect. His blonde curls shone in the sun right then, and his massive eyebrows twitched at the extra sunlight.

"He fell asleep?" Canada stood behind the pair of them, having come from the house with a beer with ice chunks in it directly from the icebox. He had a smile on his face, as if he were asking, _and you haven't done anything to him yet?_

He tended to have a smile on his face as of late. He was through rebellion stage, and had become known for being quite calm and even tempered. For what little he was known, anyway. He'd become his own country some time ago, and no longer jumped to England's call. They were still closely linked, however.

Australia let out a chuckle, and replied quietly, "It would be a hassle to find a spider." It would normally be a hassle worth taking on, but for now, he was feeling nostalgic, seeing a child where the short teenager lay.

Canada carefully checked his lawn chair for any of Australia's bugs, and then took a seat. He seemed mildly amused, taking a chug from his beer as he observed the breeze rustling the trees.

Being this nostalgic made Australia think of Hong Kong too; he'd grown into a smartass. More smart than ass, thank goodness. He'd been the most spoiled out of anyone. Though it wouldn't be fair to describe him as getting away with murder, it seemed England had completely forgotten the Bible verse, _spare the rod and spoil the child. _He'd turned out well anyway.

Australia took a lazy gulp of his beer, and looked over to see Canada's eyes half closed. He grinned and prodded Canada. "Don't go falling asleep on me too."

"I would never," Canada replied, smile reappearing, though the sleepy look didn't dissipate. It was just that sort of temperature, warm enough to make you cozy, but cool enough to keep you comfortable.

New Zealand snorted in his sleep, turning towards his side.

"You know he sodomizes sheep; not a good example to follow," Australia said mock-seriously. He and New Zealand always seemed to like to have a go at each other anymore.

It was sort of similar to the way Canada and America's relationship worked. He'd had his ups and downs with America during the past decades, the most recent issue (which nearly got him and England not speaking to each other) being England siding with America over Canada having a western port. But that had been long enough ago that Canada and America were chummy again, as much they ever could be.

Canada's relations with France had taken on a good tone, though Australia suspected things would never be the way they once were. He didn't know much about Canada's early colonial days; it was one of the few things Canada hadn't been forthcoming about. Whatever had happened between them, though, they seemed to be working it out. France had shown up for Canada's birthday celebration, and had kept showing up since then.

Australia was just glad he and Canada could have a relationship going without the complications of living so near to each other. He sometimes wondered if they would have hated each if they'd known each other from the beginning. It didn't seem possible, he decided, as Canada smiled at him again.

"You're thinking about getting that spider, aren't you?" Canada said, that _you're still such a child sometimes_ look on his face.

Australia grinned. "That's exactly what I'm thinking. Why don't you give me a hand?"

So Canada did, and not for the first time, New Zealand woke up with a yell to the tickling sensation of an arachnid.

/AN/ I know, it is short. I hope it's satisfactory, and doesn't leave any loose ends. Also, I will admit, I am not sure if Australians had iceboxes at the point of the story, which is before WWI. I claim artistic license.

I intend to start the next story around WWI. It would be more Australia and New Zealand centric than Australia and Canada centric. Though, I do have a request. I am aware that there are several New Zealanders and Australians in my audience; I would like to know if you happen to have some idea of how old time men of your country would speak. It's a challenge enough to fake sounding English/Victorian/whatever; something less mainstream (in America) is a colossal challenge. And I want to do it right.

The next story should be shorter than the first one; this one was a whopper, man. Over 120,000 words, you know.

I just want to thank you all for sticking with me and my story throughout this long ride. You guys lifted my spirits on bad days and being able to write for an audience has developed my writing skills in so many ways. Thanks for being awesome!


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